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THE FATAL SECRET. 


BY 


AUTHOE 

(( 


MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


OF “I3HMAEL,” “ SELF-RAISED,” 


9 ✓ 

** FAIR ATT 1 


PLAY,” “ HOW HE WON HER/ 
THE CHANGED BRIDES,” “THE BRIDE’S FATE,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” 
“RETRIBUTION,” “FORTUNE SEEKER,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,” ETC. 


AND OTHER STORIES BY HER SISTER, 


MRS. FRANCES HENSHAAV BADEN. 

AUTHOR OP “THE BRIDE’S SECRET,” ETC. 


. V 


said that you had faithless groxon^ 
That gold had wiled yow* love from me ; 
But my firm heart was constant stilly 
And thought that false you could not he ; 
It thought that truth and constancy 
Within your bosom' dwellers were; 

My Jove no ill of you coxdd think ; 

A nd are you then so false axid fair t 





PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 



Bntered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1877, 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 



MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOCTHWORTH’S WORKS. 


Each Work is complete in one large Duodecimo Volumei 


■^SELF-RAISED ; or, FROM THE DEPTHS. Sequel to Tshmad. 
ASHMAEL-, or, IN THE DEPTHS. {Being Self-Made.) 

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 
VICTORS S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to Beautiful Fiend. 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 
FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER. 

HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to Fair Play.'*’ 
yTHE CHANGED BRIDES: or, Winning Her Wag. 

2" HE BRIDE' S FATE. Sequel to “77^6 Changed Brides.'* 
HIE FATAL MARRIAGE ; or, Oi'ville Deville. 

GRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow- Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to Cruel us the Grave.'* 
THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse. 

> LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess. 

THE BRIDAL EVE ; or. Rose Elmer. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or. The Brothers. 

, THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 
A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to The Lost Heir of Linlithgow." 
THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to The Family Doom.'* 
THE GIPSY'S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening. 
THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEA UTIES; or, Shannondale. 

ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL'S LOVE. 
INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF mARL RIVER. 

VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE WIDOW'S SON; or. Left Alone. 

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or. The Children of The Isle. 
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or. Married in Haste. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or. Hickory Hall. 

THE DESERTED WIFE. BRIDE OF LLEW ELLYN. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. HA UNTED HOMESTEAD. 

THE WIFE'S VICTORY. THE SPECTRE LOVER. 
THE FATAL SECRET. THE TWO SISTERS. 

THE ARTIST'S LOVE. LOVE'S LABOR WON. 
CURSE OF CLIFTON. RETRIBUTION. 

Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth ; or $1.50 in Paper Cover. 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one or more 
of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, 


or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the publishers, 
T. B. PETERSON ^ BROTHERS, 


306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


TO 


OP 

♦ 

JOSHUA lAUKENZ HENSHAW, 

LATE OF WASHINGTON CITY, 

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 

BY 

HIS DAUGHTER AND STEP-DAUGHTER, 

THE AUTHORS. 


Prospect Cottage, 

Georgetown, D. C., 

January 31«#, 1877. 


PREFACE. 


Many of the stories in this volume are transcripts of real 
life. The first story, “ The Fatal Secret,” is founded 
on a remarkable trial that took place in London, during 
the last century. 

E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 

Prospect Cottage, 

Georgetown, D. C., 

January 31«f, 1877. 



CONTENTS 


THE FATAL SECRET 

Archie’s love 

THE LOST JEWEL 

BETWEEN TWO LOVES 

WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 

LOOK UNDER THE BED 

AT A FEARFUL COST 

MINNIE GREY 

WAS IT A DREAM ? 

WON AGAIN 

LADY MARGARET 

SPOONS 

THE FLOWERS’ WORK 

ONE TRUE HEART 

BY HIS OWN WORTH 

A LITERARY WIFE 

EDNA’S SACRIFICE 

WHO WAS THE THIEF ? 

THE GHOST 

THE TWO BROTHERS 

WHAT HE LEFT 


PAGE 

23 

61 

74 

82 

91 

99 

106 

113 

123 

128 

137 

148 

157 

165 

172 

181 

189 

200 

208 

216 

223 



A 


22 


CONTENTS 


KATIE’S FISHING 

THE landlady’s STORY 

THE RUSE 

THE master’s HEAD 

THAT HARD 3IAN 

UNDER THE TRAIN 

A CHRISTMAS BOX 

HER OWN SWEET WILL. 

FATE FIXED IT. . ..* 

THE MISSING KEY 

THE BABY’S VICTORY 

THE NEW CINDERELLA. 

WHO WINS ? 

THE MIRROR 

m 

THE MAN HATERS 

LOW BORN 

CAUGHT IN THE ACT. . . . 


PAGB 

233 

240 

248 

257 

264 

274 

281 

289 

297 

308 

314 

322 

330 

340 

347 

358 

367 









THE FATAL SECRET. 


BY EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


CHAPTER I. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

They said that you had faithless grown, 

That gold had wiled your love from me ; 

But my firm heart was constant still, 

And thought that false you could not be; 

It thought that truth and constancy 
Within your bosom dwellers were; 

My love no ill of you could think ; 

And are you then so false and fair? — NicOLL. 

HE terrible events of this true story occurred some 



-L years ago, before steam-cars or telegraph wires had 
been invented, or cruel laws with extreme penalties for 
slight offences had been repealed: while 5^et all distant 
communications were made through special messengers, 
or slow mail-carriers, and all travelling accomplished by 
private conveyances, or public stage-coaches that rumbled 
over bad turnpike roads infested by foot-pads and mounted 
highwaymen ; while yet gentlemen and doctors of divinity 
were “ executed ” for counterfeiting or forgery, and poor 
servant girls “ hanged ” for stealing. 

It was on a beautiful afternoon towards the end of the 
month of May, in the evil days of those good old times, 
when a young man and woman came face to face in one 
of the loveliest green lanes/ of England. 


( 23 ) 


24 


THE FATAL SECKET. 


The young man stopped and stood his ground. 

The young woman started, and would have hurried on, 
but that he gently detained her. 

“ Well met, Sophie Melville ! I have been trying to see 
you for ^week past ; but you were always out when I 
called at the parsonage. Come now, sit down on this bank 
for a little while. I have something to say to you.” 

The speaker was a fine-looking young fellow, a fair type 
of the British farmer, tall, broad-shouldered, full-chested, 
rather bull-necked and bullet-headed, with ruddy com- 
plexion, reddish hair and beard, regular features, and a 
frank, open, manly countenance, lighted up by a pair of 
clear, kind, bright, blue eyes, that dwelt upon the face of 
the girl with an expression of tenderness. 

He wore a homely suit of rough gray tweed and a coarse 
straw hat. His shoes were rugged, and his ungloved hands 
were large and red with toil. No one could for an instant 
have mistaken Joseph Grainger for a “gentleman,” yet 
every one must have recognized in him something much 
better — a true man. 

The girl to whom he spoke was a beauty ; there could 
be no two opinions about that. Her form was of medium 
height, at once slender and well rounded, elegant in all its 
proportions and graceful in all its movements. Her head 
was small, stately, and covered with a rich growth of 
lustrous blue-black hair. Her features were delicately and 
perfectly chiselled ; her eyes, of the darkest, softest gray, 
were fringed with long black lashes; her lips were small, 
plump, and ruby-like in color and clearness; her com- 
plexion was pale and clear, more delicate and beautiful in 
its alabaster light than any bloom could have been. 

Her dress was plain, even to shabbiness, and consisted 
— though it was fine spring weather — of a faded and dingy 
brown merino suit, just relieved by neat white cuffs and 


THE FATAH SECRET. 


25 


collar. She wore also a rusty black felt hat with a rather 
stringy black feather, well-cleaned and mended brown kid 
gloves, and a pair of boots, once faultless in fit, but now 
rather the worse for wear. Yet this shabbily-dressed 
beauty bore herseK with pride of a mediaeval princess. 

She was the eldest daughter of the curate of Santon, and 
one of the large family of girls and boys who subsisted or 
half subsisted on the father’s miserable salary of fifty 
pounds a year, with the help of an occasional lodger 
during the fishing season, for Santon-on-Serle was noted 
for its trout streams. 

Joseph Grainger and Sophie Melville had been playmates 
in childhood, and understood but unavowed lovers in 
youth. 

On this May-day they had met by mere accident in one 
of the lanes leading from the village out to the parsonage, 
and he had seized the chance to speak to her. 

“ Well, I will sit down half a minute here. I really 
haven’t time to stay longer,” she said in reply to his 
request as she seated herself on a bank of wild thyme near 
the outlet of the lane. 

“You never have time to see me now-a-days, Sophie! 

Not since your fine gentleman from London has been down 
here I The Honorable Algernon De Courcey, is he ? The 
younger brother of the Earl of Allacres, eh? A pretty 
* honorable,’ he I And a credit to his noble family ! To 
set himself to turn the head of a simple country girl 
like you I ” 

“ Joseph 1 You shall not talk so of Mr. De Courcey 1 • « 

He is my mother’s lodger and — ” 

“ Your suitor ! Nay, don’t fiare up, Sophie ! I mean no 
offence ; though it is rather hard to have a fine gentleman 
like he is, come between a plain man and his sweetheart ; 
for if I mean no harm, lass, it is just as certain that he 


26 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


means no good. But I did not come here to accuse a man 
behind his back, my dear. I would much rather tell him 
to his face what I think of him, and have it out then and 
there in a stand-up fight.” 

“A stand-up fight? ” repeated the girl, scornfully, “ how 
can you be so low in your ideas, Joseph Grainger? Mr. De 
Cource}^ is a gentleman I ” 

“ Gentleman ! But I’ll keep my temper ! Sophie, dear 
Sophie; we have been companions and friends all our 
lives. Surely that gives me some right to counsel you, 
some claim to your attention.” 

“ I don’t know what claim, Mr. Joseph ! ” 

“Sophie, although no promise to that efiect has ever 
passed betv/een us, yet I always felt that we were bound 
together in mutual love, and that I, at least, was bound to 
you in honor as well. Why, Sophie, I have never felt at 
liberty to pay such attentions to another girl as you have 
received from this Mr. De Courcey.” 

“ I am sure you might have done so if you had pleased,” 
said the girl, with a toss of her stately little head. 

“I did not please. I had no more inclination than 
liberty to do so.” 

“ Really, Mr. Joseph, you talk as if we were already 
engaged,” exclaimed the beauty, curling her lip. 

“Among true-hearted people a mutual understanding, 
though unspoken, constitutes a most sacred engagement. 
But, Sophie dearest, I come to you this afternoon with the 
sanction of your father, to ratify our engagement in words. 
My dear, you have known me all your life, from the time 
when you, a babe of three years old, used to ride on the 
shoulders of me, a lad of twelve. You know I have loved 
you with true affection from that time to this, and until 
that fellow—whose neck I shall break some of these days 
if the hangman don’t save me the trouble— came down 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


27 


here, I was sure of your affection in retur?i. Nor do I 
doubt it much now. He has only dazzled your fancy, not 
won your heart, my dear ; but there ! I will test that in 
another minute, Sophie. When I spoke to your father an 
hour ago, I only talked of my farm of forty acres well 
stocked, of my substantial stone farm-house well fur- 
nished, and my income of four hundred a year. And 
these were satisfactory. But to you, Sophie, I speak of the 
life-long love between us, and for that cause I beg you to 
end all doubt and suspense and to be my wife.” 

“I can end all doubt and suspense, Mr. Joe; but I 
cannot be your wife,” answered the girl, not without 
emotion. 

“ In the name of Heaven, Sophie, do you mean this ? ” 

“ Yes, I do, most earnestly.” 

“ But why ? Oh, why ? ” 

“ Because you were too long about asking me, Mr. Joe. 
You felt too sure of me. You took too much time, and 
now you are too late.” 

“ Too late ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ I am not bound to tell you, Mr. Joe. Good-moming.” 

With that the girl arose and walked off. 

Joseph Grainger started up with the impulse to follow 
and detain her ; then he checked himself, saying : 

“ No ; I will not lay hand on her. But that fellow I It 
is he ! And I will break every bone in his body.” 

Meanwhile Sophie Melville walked rapidly down the 
green lane to the lower end, where stood the curate’s pretty 
parsonage, covered with trailing vines and overshadowed 
by trees. 

She entered the gate and passed through the yard, 
opened the house-door and hurried up to her room, 
where she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears, 
sobbing : 


28 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


“ Poor Joe ! poor faithful heart ! It seems cruel to dis- 
appoint and grieve him so ; but I cannot help it ! I can- 
not ! I am not fit for a farmer’s wife, nor for a country 
life ! I want more of change, variety, excitement ! ” 

Her soliloquy was interrupted by a rap at the door, and 
the voice of one of her little sisters saying : 

“Sophie, papa wants you to come right down to his 
study.” 

"^The girl hastily wiped her eyes and went down. 

The Reverend Allan Melville sat in his shabby little den, 
dignified with the name of study, in a well-worn leathern 
chair, and beside a table covered with a faded green baize 
cloth, and furnished with a few well-thumbed books. 

He was a small, thin man, with a long sallow face, dark 
eyes, and prematurely thin white hair. 

He was wrapped in a thread-bare gray dressing-gown. 

“ Come in, my dear child, and sit down. I have some- 
thing to say to you ! ” he began. 

The girl took the chair nearest the speaker. 

“ Young Grainger has been here, as I suppose you know.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, he has only said what I have been expecting to , 
hear for the last twelve months — ^that he wants to marry 
you. Now, my girl, the match is in every respect a desir- 
able one for a young woman in your position, and if my 
judgment is correct, I believe it to be an acceptable one i 
to you.” ! 

“No, sir; it is not. I do not want to marry Joe! 
Grainger,” replied Sophie, beginning to fold the ribbons j 
of her apron. 

“ Oh, that is all mere girlish nonsense, you know. I am 
sure you like the young man, and he is most worthy of 
your regard. I am very sure you like him, unless, unless 
this Mr. De Courcey has supplanted him in your favor. 


THE FATAL SECEET. 


29 


Sophie, I warn you to have nothing further to say to that 
gentleman. Certain reports have reached me, but too well 
founded, I fear, and not to his credit. I have indeed felt 
compelled this afternoon to give him a week’s warning to 
seek other lodgings. I was wrong ever to have permitted 
any acquaintance to grow up between you. It must cease 
at once. As for young Grainger, I have no doubt you 
will sooner or later accept him. That is all I have to sa}" 
to you, my dear.” 

Sophie left her father’s presence trembling with a variety 
of emotions. 

In the narrow passage outside she came face to face 
with Algernon De Courcey. 

He was a man of splendid beauty and diabolical fasci- 
nation, tall, magnificently formed, with clear cut, regular 
features, fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and a profusion 
of gold-colored hair and beard. He wore a sportsman’s 
dress, carried his fishing-rod in his hand, and looked as if 
he had just come in or was just going out. 

“ Sophie,” he whispered, in a quick and eager tone, “ get 
your hat and come with me down to the brook.” 

She hesitated. 

“It may be the very last time we shall ever speak 
together, for I am going away to-night.” 

“ To-night ! ” she echoed, in an unmistakable tone of 
distress. 

I “Yes, to-night. Will you give me one last inter- 
view?” 

1 “ Yes,’^ she hastily exclaimed, as she snatched her hat 

' from the rack in the corner of the hall and followed him 
down to the trout-stream where he daily fished. 

* Sophie Melville had passed out of her father’s house for 
the last time. She never returned. 

' That night the family missed her from the tea-table ; but 


30 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


felt no anxiety, for her absence at some of the cottages 
was not a very unusual circumstance. 

But when the hour of evening prayer and retirement 
arrived, they became uneasy. Just as the curate was 
about to send messengers around to inquire for his 
daughter, a lad from The Bed Bull Tavern came and 
asked for the curate. Being admitted to the study, he 
handed a letter to Mr. Melville, saying : 

“ I was gin a sixpence to keep it till night and then put 
it in his reverence own fingers, and there beant no an- 
swer. Good-night, and my sarvice to ye.” 

Pulling his forelock, he disappeared before the curate 
had unfolded the note. 

It was a cruel note from his reckless daughter, telling j 
him that she loved De Courcey, and, after what her father | 
had said to her that evening, being hopeless of his consent 
to their marriage, she had accepted her lover’s proposal 
and gone with him to London, where their wedding would 
take place. She implored her parents’ forgiveness, assu- j 
ring them that their pardon was all that was necessary to I 
complete her happiness. 

“ Oh, follow her ! follow her ! prevent the marriage and 
bring her back ! ” shrieked the half-frantic mother, when 
she had heard the contents of the letter. 

“ To what good ? Since she has run off with him, it is ! 
best that she should marry him. Even if the worst that . 
we have heard of him be true, is it not better that slie i 
should he his wife than be called his wanton ? Besides, she j 
is twenty-one years old, she is of age and we could not' 
prevent her marriage, even if it were expedient for us to' 
attempt to do so,” said the curate. j 

His wife covered her face with her hands, rocked her 
body to and fro, and uttered groan upon groan, in the' 
anguish of her soul. 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


31 


“We must hope the best,” pursued the curate. “This 
may be a false report that has reached us. He may not 
be an adventurer. He may be in reality what he assumes 
to be — the younger brother of the Earl of Allacres. I 
looked in the peerage, and certainly the Earl of Allacres 
has half a dozen younger brothers, and one of them, 
whose age corresponds to this man’s appearance, is 
called Algernon. We will wait for news, dear wife, and 
in the meantime we will pray for them both,” said the 
curate, calmly, though his soul was sorely troubled within 
him. 

That night the two babes, aged three and four, who had 
been used to sleep with Sophie, awoke and missed her, 
and wept and wailed for the lost sister. 

The next morning, all the younger children who had 
been accustomed to be washed and dressed by Sophie, 
sobbed and cried for the missing sister. 

That day, the faithful lover, Joseph Grainger, coming to 
the parsonage and hearing the news of her elopement with 
De Courcey, went home in deep bitterness in spirit and 
grieved for his lost sweetheart. 

And night and morning, all day and all days, the be- 
reaved parents mourned for their missing daughter lost 
by a fate far worse than death. 

But always they prayed for her, and always they waited 
for news. 

At length the news came — the most disastrous news by 
the most unexpected channel. 

Very little did the Reverend Mr. Melville think that he 
should ever hear of his recreant daughter by the police 
reports of the London Morning Post. Yet this was the 
paragraph that met his eyes, about a fortnight after the 
disappearance of his child : 


32 THE FATAL SECRET. 

U TTERING COUNTERFEIT NOTES— SOPHIA MEL- 
ville, the daughter of a curate at Santon-on-Serle, was 
yesterday morning committed to Newgate gaol, on the charge 
of passing counterfeit notes on the Bank of England, 

The curate stared at this paragraph as if he would have 
stared it out of print and through the paper. 

“‘Sophia Melville,’” he groaned. “Then she is not 
even married after all ! ‘ Charged with passing counterfeit 
notes ? ’ Then that villain was all and more than we had 
heard of him, and she is his victim I A more innocent 
and complete victim never before was sacrificed to an 
infernal scoundrel. I must go to London immediately.” , 
The curate called his eldest son, a discreet lad of eighteen, 
and to him he said : 

“ Your sister is in deep trouble. I am going to London. 
Do not let your mother see a newspaper or a visitor until 
my return. Do not let her know why I go; Be very care- 
ful. I trust all to you.” 

The son promised all the father required, and the curate 
left for London the same day, having given his wife only 
the general explanation of “ business.” 

The first visitor that came to the cottage that afternoon 
was Joseph Grainger. 

“ Where is his reverence ? ” he inquired of the son. 

“ Gone to London on sudden business.” 

“ Oh, he has ! All right ! I am going, too,” said Joseph. 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


33 


CHAPTER II. 

A FATAL FLIGHT. 

She listened to a traitor's tale.— Scott, 

He — glad 

Of her attention, gained with serpent tongue — 

His fraudulent temptation thus begun. — Milton. 

B y what arts the fascinating stranger had dazzled the 
fancy, inflamed the imagination, and won the con- 
fidence of the simple village maiden, it would be unprofit- 
able here to inquire. 

It is enough to say, that during their interview down by 
the brook, he persuaded her that the best thing she could 
do for him, for herself, and for her poor family, would be 
to fly with him to London, and there change her name from 
simple Sophie Melville to the Honorable Mrs. De Courcey. 

So sure had De Courcey felt of gaining her consent to 
his proposal, that he had a post-chaise already in waiting 
at the end of the lane. 

She suffered him to put her into it and commence the 
first stage of their journey to London — ^her heart, some- 
times depressed with humiliation and grief at the thought 
of the manner in which she had left her friends; and 
sometimes elated with pride and joy in the anticipation of 
future grandeur and prosperity for herself and for them. 

They stopped at the “ Red Bull,” distant twelve miles 
from Santon, to change horses. 

There, finding a farmer’s boy on a mule about to return 
to his home near the curate’s cottage, Sophie seized the 
chance to write and send that penitent farewell letter, 
whose reception by her father we have chronicled in the 
last chapter. 

2 

1 


34 THE FATAL SECEET. 

Changing horses every twelve miles, and travelling all 
night and the next day, they finally reached London late 
in the afternoon. 

De Courcey procured handsome lodgings in a respecta- 
ble house at the “West End,” and established his be- 
trothed in them alone, while he engaged for himself a suit 
of apartments in a fashionable hotel near by. 

“ You see, dear love,” he said, in plausible explanation of 
this arrangement, “ we have to stay over three Sundays in 
this parish in order to comply with the terms of the law, 
which requires that the bans shall be published three Sab- 
baths in succession before a legal marriage can be celebrated.” 

“ Yes, I knew that, but had forgotten it and thought we 
might be married at once. Is there not a way by special 
license ? ” she inquired, uneasily. 

“ For some persons, and under some circumstances ; but 
not for us. So, my dear girl, we must be very prudent 
and not see each other too often by day, and never by night, 
until our marriage. To-day is Saturday. To-morrow, 
being Sunday, I will have the first bans put up at St. 
Peter’s, here ; to-morrow week, the second bans ; to-morrow 
fortnight, the third and last ; immediately after which we 
may be married.” 

“How careful you are of my good name! Even my 
father would forgive and approve you if he knew all this! ” 
said Sophie, gratefully. 

De Courcey went away to his hotel that evening and | 
called and took Sophie to church the next morning, where j 
she, herself, heard her bans read out, and blushed as she 
listened. 

De Courcey went away to his hotel early in the after- 
noon, and did not return until the next morning. 

On Monday, he put in her hands a small business direc- 
tory and a roll of bank-notes, saying : 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


35 


“As I have taken you away from your friends without 
giving them the opportunity of providing you with a wed- 
ding outfit, you must permit me, in the character of your 
future husband, to supply all these deficiencies of which my 
impatience has been the cause. Take, then, this business 
directory as your guide, and this roll of notes, and go to 
the best shops and provide your dear little self with the 
best goods.” 

Sophie took the book and the money with a blush, half 
of shame at the thought of accepting anything from her 
lover until he should become her husband, and half with 
childish delight in having money to spend in dress. 

And how soon, she reflected, she would have money and 
presents in abundance to send to her impoverished father 
and mother at home! The thought of enriching them 
gave her more delight than the thought of elevating her- 
self. To become a lady, with unlimited means at her 
command, and to make all their fortunes I To have her 
father preferred to some rich living in the Earl of Allacres’ 
gift! To purchase a commission in the army for her 
brother Tom! To send Sam and Will to Oxford! To 
have Mary and Annie up to live with her in town, to dress 
them in a handsome style worthy of their rare beauty, and 
to marry them off to gentlemen of rank and fortune ! To 
do the same things for her younger sisters as they grew 
up ! Oh, what a happy future to anticipate ! 

All these thoughts, suggested by the bank-notes she 
held in her hands as the first-fruits of her wealth, passed 
rapidly through her mind as she timidly turned them over. 

“Here is more, much more than I need,” she said. 
“ Here are about one hundred pounds, and I am sure I 
shall not spend twenty.” 

“ I know it, my dear love ! Nor would I advise you to 
spend much here in Lond^on. For, immediately after our 


36 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


marriage, we will proceed to Paris, where you will find 
everything you can desire in greater abundance and of 
better quality,” said De Courcey. 

“ Then take back all these notes but two tens — that will 
be enough for me.” 

“No. I wish you to change the others for specie. 
Listen. We are going to the continent where notes will 
be of no use, and only silver and gold will pass. That is 
why I want to have the notes changed for specie. Now 
listen attentively. Every article that you buy, buy at a 
separate shop and change a note. In this way you will 
be able to change nearly all that money for gold and 
silver, as there is no Bank of England note of a denomina- 
tion less than five pounds. You understand? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! quite,” said Sophie, cheerfully. 

“I will send you a cab from the next stand, and I 
advise you to go to Oxford and Regent street. Stop, no I 
We will walk to the cab-stand.” 

Sophie quickly prepared for her drive. He took her to 
the stand and placed her in a cab, then put in his head 
and whispered : 

“ Bring all your goods home with you.” 

“ Yes,” she said, with a nod and a smile, and the cab 
drove away. 

All that morning Sophie shopped in Regent and Oxford 
streets, changing every note and buying every article at a 
separate establishment. 

She returned to her lodgings, having spent only ten 
pounds, and bringing back ninety in gold and silver. 

“ W ell done ! W e have a little fund to start with,” said her 
lover, when on his evening visit she gave him the change. 

She looked so pleased at his approbation that he con- 
tinued : 

“To-morrow I shall trouble you to make some pur- 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


37 


chases for me in the Strand. You must do it on the same 
principle, so that we may get rid of all our paper and have 
plenty of silver and gold to take with us. You under- 
stand ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I understand, perfectly,” said Sophie, feeling 
very rich in the community of goods when he talked about 
‘‘ our ” paper, and silver, and gold. 

But in truth, poor Sophie, with that honest face of hers, 
which would have won confidence anywhere, understood 
nothing about the matter, or she would have known that 
the Honorable Algernon De Courcey could have easily got 
good “ paper ” changed for specie by any broker or banker ; 
and sh^ might have suspected that her confiding heart and 
honest face were being recklessly and cruelly used for the 
nefarious purposes of an accomplished villain. 

On Tuesday, he sent her out to shop and change money 
in the Strand; on Wednesday, he sent her to St. Paul’s 
Churchyard — the great locality for cheap goods ; on Thurs- 
day, to Fleet street; on Friday, to High Holborn; on 
Saturday, to Piccadilly. 

Saturday evening, counting over the money, he found 
that she had changed five hundred pounds, in notes of five 
and ten pounds each, by spending only twenty, and that 
she had brought back in exchange four hundred and 
eighty pounds in gold and silver. 

What a capital little financier you are ! You have no 
idea what a grand speculation you have made for us ! ” 
exclaimed De Courcey, with a peculiar smile. “ But now, 
my dear, I must say good-evening. It will not do for me 
to stay too late until the law gives me leave to stay with 
you forever,” he added playfully as he arose to depart. 

Just as he reached the door, he stopped and turned back 
as if struck by a sudden thought. 

“ Oh, by the way, ’’'Tie said, “ you regard an oath relig- 
iously, do you not ? ” 


38 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


“ Certainly,” she answered. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because I want you to swear to me that you will never, 
under any circumstances, tell any one where you got those 
bank-notes you have changed this week, or mention my 
name in connection with them.” 

“ As if it were probable any one would ever think of 
asking me ! ” she exclaimed. “ But, of course, if you wish 
me to keep the transaction a secret, I will do so, though I 
don’t see the use of it, and do so without taking any oath, 
either.” 

“Ah, but I wish you to take an oath to the effect that 
you will never betray the secret of where you procured 
those notes ! Will you do so ? ” 

“ Of course I will, since you wish me, though I cannot 
for the life of me see any use in it.” 

“ You will see, in the course of the week, my love ; but, 
in the meantime, you must trust me.” 

“ Of course I trust you, dearest Algernon. If I had not 
trusted you utterly, do you think I ever would have left 
home with you ? ” 

“ No, certainly not,” he said, with a laugh. 

Then he got the Bible and administered an oath which 
she took in the most solemn manner. 

“That will do. Thank you, love. To-morrow I will 
come to take you to church. That will be the second 
Sunday for the bans to be published. A week from 
to-morrow, the third bans, and in the afternoon of the 
same day we will be married, and on Monday we will 
leave for the continent. Only one more week of waiting, 
dear love.” 

“ Only one more week,” she echoed, as he raised her 
hand to his lips and left her. 

“ Only one more week,” she thought, when he had gone. 

Then she resolved that as soon as ever they should be 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


39 


married, and she should have the right to ask him, she 
would ‘‘ put her pride in her pocket ” and implore him to 
take her down to Santon, procure her parents’ forgiveness, 
and do something handsome for the family before leaving 
England. 

She went to bed early to be still and think happy 
thoughts, and then to go to sleep and dream happy dreams. 

The next morning she arose by times, breakfasted early, 
dressed for church, and sat down to wait for the Honorable 
Algernon De Courcey to come and take her thither. 

The appointed hour came without bringing Mr. De 
Courcey. 

Then Sophie grew uneasy. 

“We shall be late,” she said to herself. 

The church-bells began to ring, rang for ten minutes, 
ceased ringing. 

Sophie became anxious. 

“ I wonder what can have happened to delay him ? 
she asked herself. 

Another ten minutes passed and she took off her bonnet 
and put it away with a sigh, saying : 

“Now it is too late for church. Something has pre- 
vented him from coming at all. Some friend has called, 
or something else has occurred. He will come himself 
soon, or send and let me know.” 

But the day passed and he came not, and Sophie grew 
feverishly anxious, and spent a sleepless night. 

In the morning she arose unrefreshed, but she said to 
herself : 

“ I am wrong to worry so and lose my sleep. Some 
unavoidable trifle has detained him. He will come or 
send to-day.” 

She forced herself to eat a little breakfast, although she 
had no appetite, and she said again and again : 


40 


THE FATAL SECEET. 


“ He will surely come or send to-day.” 

He did not come, but he sent. 

About ten o’clock, the waiter rapped at her parlor-door 
and handed in a folded paper, saying : 

‘‘ A note for you, ma’am, left by a boy at the street-door. 
No answer.” And he disappeared. 

Sophie eagerly seized the note, tore it open, and read as 
follows : 

“ My Dearest Girl : — I should have kept my church 
appointment with you, but I am under the darkest of 
clouds. I am involved in a net of false circumstantial 
evidence, so condemning, that if I suffer myself to be seen 
or known, I shall be utterly ruined. And yet I am per- 
fectly innocent. I cannot explain myself fully on paper, 
but when I see you, aU shall be made clear. In the mean- 
time, trust me against aU appearances. Nay, I know you 
will. And above all things, if you love me, and would not 
ruin me, keep that secret. 

^‘Keep that secret under all circumstances^ and trust me 
under all appearance. 

“ No harm can come to you. The authorities may try 
to frighten you, but they cannot hurt you. Trust me, and 
do not fear them. Destroy this note as soon as you have 
read it.” 

The paper was without date or signature, yet it was 
easily recognized as the Honorable Algernon De Couriey’s 
writing. 

Sophie destroyed it after she had read it, yet not until 
by frequent perusal she had every word engraven on her 
puzzled brain. 

After a dozen readings she understood no more of it 
than she had at the first. 


THE FATAL SECEET. 


41 


Another hour, however, made its fatal meaning clear. 

Sophie w^as still puzzling her troubled liead over the 
mysterious note, and wondering whether hours, days, or 
weeks would pass before she should see De Courcey and 
hear from his lips the explanation he promised, when the 
sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs startled her. 
The next moment her door was opened, without even a 
preliminary rap, and two Bow street officers entered the 
room. 

“Is your name Sophie Melville?” inquired the foremost, 
addressing the surprised girl. 

“Yes, it is,” she answered. “Why do you ask me? 
What is the matter ? ” 

“ The matter is that you are wanted, my dear, and must 
come with us,” answered the officer, in a not unkindly 
voice. 

“ Oh, )^es ! I know ! Certainly ! I am quite ready to 
go ! ” promptly exclaimed the girl, thinking that De 
Courcey had sent for her, and not knowing at sight a Bow 
street bailiff from a bishop. 

“ Well, you take it easy. So much the better. Come 
along, my dear,” said the officer. 

“Poor innocent! She don’t understand what you 
mean I ” said the landlady, who had come in behind the 
bailiffs. “ But if you want anybody to speak for you, my 
dear, and bear witness for you, call on me, Josephine Rod- 
gers, do you hear ? ” she added, turning to the unconscious 
prisoner. 

“ Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Rodgers ; but it is all right. 
I will go with these men. Don’t be afraid, they mean me 
no harm,” said poor Sophie, as she went to her chamber, 
followed by one of the bailiffs who kept her in sight. 

In a few moments she reappeared, dressed in the new 
hat and mantle she had purchased in Regent street the 


42 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


week before, and unsuspiciously yielded herself to the 
guidance of the officers, who were about to take her before 
the magistrate. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SECRET. 

She armed herself to bear. 

It was a wondrous sight to see 
Such high resolve and constancy, 

In form so soft and fair. — S ir Walter Scott. 

rnHEY put her in the cab that was waiting at the door, 
JL and drove to Bow street. Covent Garden, where they 
stopped. 

The elder officer handed her down to the sidewalk and 
led her through a rude and jeering crowd of men and boys 
to the interior of the magistrate’s office, which was half 
filled with constables, prisoners, and spectators. 

■The officer made his way through all these and led his 
prisoner up before the table, over against which the pre- 
siding magistrate and his assistants were seated. 

“ Here’s the young woman, Sophia Melville, your wor- 
ship,” said the officer presenting her. 

“ Your name is Sophia Melville,” said the clerk. 

“Yes, sir,” frankly replied the unsuspecting girl, inno- 
c^t of offence and ignorant of danger. 

“ Humph,” said the same functionary, taking up a paper 
from the table and referring to it as he continued to 
speak. “ Sophia Melville, you stand charged here by Silas 
Thornton, Mary Redwood, John Colville, and others, with 
having feloniously passed on them counterfeit notes on the 


THE FATAL SECRET. 43 

Bank of England. What have you to answer to this 
charge ? ” 

I — never did it,” the astonished girl was about to 
reply; but quickly remembering the warning she had 
received from De Courcey, and thinking this was the com- 
ing trouble to which he had referred, and believing him to 
be as innocent as herself, she resolved to be very cautious 
in her responses, and so she only answered, “ I have noth- 
ing to say, sir.” 

The accusers were then called up, and Silas Thornton, 
Mary Redwood, John Colville, and others, mercers, were 
in turn sworn, and testified that the prisoner had changed 
with them divers counterfeit bank-notes, taking gold, 
silver, and merchandise in return. 

These notes were offered in evidence and pronounced 
counterfeit by a clerk of the bank then present. 

Again Sophie Melville was asked what she had to say to 
this charge. 

Again she answered that she had nothing to say. 

Then she was asked where she had procured them. 

She declined to tell. 

“Are you aware of the extreme danger to which you 
expose yourself by this obstinacy, young woman?” sternly 
inquired the magistrate. 

Sophie did not reply ; she thought within herself how 
De Courcey had already warned her that the authorities 
would try to frighten her into betraying his secret, but 
that they could not harm her. 

“ Give up your accomplices, and it will be all the better 
for you.” 

“ I have no accomplices. Nor will I ever give any one 
up,” rather inconsistently replied the girl. 

Nor could either threats or persuasions prevail on her 
to make any other reply. 


44 THE FATAL SECRET. 

The magistrate made out a warrant to commit her to 
Newgate, and then said, impatiently, as he handed it to 
the officer: 

“ Take her away at once.” 

“ Come, you must come away now,” said the latter. 

“ I am very glad to get away, I am sure,” murmured 
the simple girl, who understood little of what was passing 
around her. 

They led her out and put her into the cab, which was 
immediately driven off. 

“ I shall be thankful to get home to Mrs. Rodgers’ again, 
for that was a dreadful place ; but they could not frighten 
much out of me,” she said to herself as they proceeded. 

Presently they drew up before the iron gates of a huge, 
dark, gloomy edifice with many grated windows. 

“ What place is this ? ” she inquired. “ Why have you 
stopped here ? ” 

“Why, didn’t you know? It’s Newgate.” 

“ Newgate ! ” she exclaimed, turning pale, for she had 
heard of it, and it was a name of horror. “ Why have you 
stopped at Newgate ? ” 

“ Why, dont you know? I never saw any one so simple ! 
His worship has committed you to gaol here to wait your 
trial for passing counterfeit money.” 

“ To Newgate! ” she gasped, and fainted at his feet. 

In this condition she was carried into the warden’s office, 
and from thence, when certain forms had been observed, 
she was conveyed to her cell in the women’s ward. 

When she recovered her consciousness she Avas lying on 
a rude pallet in a stone den, with a female turnkey of 
stern visage standing over her. 

She did not quite recover her senses, but Avoke in a 
dazed state of horror, in AAdiich but one thing was dis- 
tinctly recognized — that she must keep his secret through 
fire and water, if necessar 3 ^ 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


45 


Oh ! to what a cruel ordeal, to what a fiery trial he 
has subjected me ! But I will be firm ! I will keep his 
secret ; for I am innocent and can have nothing to fear. 
And I know that he is guiltless, and only appearances are 
against him.” 

She had not at that moment a friend in the world to 
sustain her ; she had abandoned her family for the sake 
of her lover, and she had been abandoned by him for 
his own sake. Yet alone, friendless, in prison, under a 
shameful charge, and in deadly peril of her life, she re- 
solved to keep the fatal secret, and she did keep it, through 
the brief but terrible days of her imprisonment. 

In those “ good old times ” no accused person remained 
long in prison. They were tried, condemned, and executed 
in a frightfully short space. 

The day of her trial was very fast approaching, yet she 
had never thought of counsel, nor had any one thought of 
it for her. 

About a week before her expected arraignment at the 
Old Bailey, the female turnkey, who was the only creature 
that ever spoke to her, said : 

“ You’re to go before the court next week, aren’t you ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Am I ? I wonder what they wiU do 
with me if they say I am guilty ? ” 

The woman did not answer. Heartless hag, as her busi- 
ness compelled her to be, she had not the cruelty to tell 
this poor girl, “ They will hang you out there in the street 
before the prison walls.” 

No, she could not say that, so she remained silent. 

“ Will they send me to Botany Bay ? ” (another horrible 
place she had heard of as a terror to evil-doers.) 

“ Oh, no* child ! They won’t send you to Botany Bay,” 
said the woman, glad of a chance to speak so. 

‘‘Oh, well, that is a comfort! Do you know, I was 


46 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


almost afraid they would ? But one gets so many fears, 
shut up in a place like this,” she answered, with a faint, 
sick smile. Then with a quick and utter loss of self- 
control, she burst into tears and sobbed aloud, wailing 
forth : 

‘‘ Oh, my father ! Oh, my mother ! Thank heaven, you 
know nothing of this ! ” 

Even while this scene was going on in the cell, a gray- 
haired man waited with the crowd at the visitors’ gate for 
the hour to come when they would be admitted to see 
their friends. 

This man was bowed with age, grief and fatigue. 
His garments were old, rusty, and travel-stained. He 
leaned heavily on the handle of a cotton umbrella and 
sighed and moaned from time to time, or murmured a 
faltering prayer. 

He was Allan Melville, the aged curate of Santon and 
the father of the imprisoned girl. 

While he stood there, feeling unutterably desolate and 
wretched in that strange and miserable crowd, he felt his 
shoulder touched, and, at the same time, a kindly voice, 
saying : 

“ Mr. Melville, sir ! I thought I should find you here, 
if I missed you everywhere else in this big town.” 

“Joseph Grainger!” exclaimed the old man, turning 
slowly around. 

“ Yes, Mr. Melville. Did you think you would not find 
me at your side in this trouble ? ” 

'“After her treatment of you, too ! ” groaned the curate. 

“ Soon as ever I read it in the Morning Post,^’ continued 
Grainger, ignoring the interruption, “ I went down to your 
house, for I said to myself you would be sure to be going 
up to London to see after your daughter, and I would go 
along to take care of you. But when I reached the cot- 
tage, sir, you had gone. That was on Tuesday.” 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


47 


I took tke London mail that passed through Santon 
that day,” said the curate. 

“Yes, so I supposed at the time. And as the coach 
had gone, I started on horseback. I should ’a’ been here 
before you, sir, only I lost an hour or two stopping till the 
bank was open to draw out my funds. However, I rode 
day and night and changed horses all along the road, 
and should have got here by daylight this morning, but for 
another interruption, that came near ending my journey 
and my life at the same moment.” 

“Ah 1 Highwaymen ! ” exclaimed the curate. 

“Yes; two of them, masked, mounted, and armed, met 
and tried to stop me on Black Heath, a few miles out of 
London.” 

“ Ay, a notoriously dangerous locality I have heard.” 

“ But the gentlemen of the road got the wrong pig by 
the ear that time ! I was armed to the teeth myself. Not 
to boast, I shot the first assailant dead on the spot, and 
wounded the other as he was riding away, so severely, that 
he fell from his horse. I alighted from mine, and picked 
him up, succeeded in giving the alarm and having him 
lodged in gaol.” 

“That was a narrow escape, and a good deed of yours.” 

“ Yes, but it detained me ; however, thank Heaven, I did 
get off safe and punished those rascals. By the way, do you 
know, parson, it runs in my head, uncommon, how I have 
seen that last fellow I hurt — the one that’s in prog now — 
somewheres else ? There was a something in his face that 
reminded me of somebody else, though for the life of me 
I can’t tell who it was ! But, then, the fellow’s face was 
so begrimed and covered up with black hair and beard, 
that the devil — begging your reverence’s pardon — couldn’t 
have told what he was made of,” continued Grainger. 

The curate’s attention had fallen away from his com- 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


t48 

panion, and become absorbed again in thoughts of his 
unhappy daughter. 

The farmer brought him up suddenly by exclaiming : 

“ Well ! I came up here for a practical purpose. Sym- 
pathy and friendship as hasn’t a body in it, isn’t good for 
much. I took my gold out o’ the bank, and brought it up 
here to hire the biggest wig of a lawyer-fellow to defend 
our Sophie ; for, mind you, we both know she’s innocent, 
and we’ll get her off — ” 

“ You — you ! ” exclaimed the father, in deep emotion, 
“ you whom she deserted ? You do this for her ? ” 

“ Bless you, curate, what is love more than selfishness if 
it only gives good for good ? But there I They are open- 
ing the gates.” 

“ Will you come in with me? ” 

“ Oh, no, I would not intrude at such a time. I only 
came here as the most likely place to find you, and I will 
wait here until you come back, and then we will go and 
find the biggest big-wig in all London town.” 

The curate followed the crowd into the prison-yard, 
where many of their friends awaited them. 

Knowing that he should not find his shrinking girl 
there, he sought out a turnkey, who took him to the gov- 
ernor’s office, where he obtained leave to visit his child in 
her cell. 

Conducted by the same turnkey through many stone 
corridors he reached, at length, the women’s ward, and his 
daughter’s cell. 

The turnkey opened the door and bade him go in. 

The curate bowed his venerable gray head to enter the 
low and grated door, which immediately clanged to, be- 
hind him. 

Sophie, clothed in the brown merino dress she had worn 
at home, sat upon the side of her narrow cot-bed, with 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


49 / 


her hands dropped helplessly beside her, her pallid face 
raised, her dim, dazed eyes fixed on vacancy. 

At the sound of the opening door, she lowered those glazed 
orbs until they rested on the face of hbr father. Then, 
with a piercing shriek, she covered her face with her hands. 

The curate sat down beside her and gathered her to his 
bosom, without a word. Then she broke into heavy sobs, 
and sobbed herself into faintness on his bosom. 

Soon he stooped and kissed her and wiped the tears 
from her eyes. 

‘‘ Oh, I’m so sorry, so sorry you knew,” were the first 
words she panted forth. ‘‘And my mother ! Oh, my poor 
mother ! ” 

“ She does not know, she will never know, if love can 
guard her from the knowledge,” murmured the curate. 

“ Father, dear,” she murmured, “ your goodness almost 
breaks my heart. It would kill me quite but for one 
thing: I am not as guilty as I seem.” 

“I have known my child all her little life, therefore I 
know iAai,” said the old man. 

“I am guilty enough, in leaving you, dear father! 
But that is all ! I never lived one day with — you know 
who. I lived with a respectable lady — Mrs. Rodgers, Rus- 
sell Square ; you can inquire about her ; and my marriage 
bans were published in the parish church there, you 
can see. I should have been married, only I was arrested 
and thrown into prison, for what I did not do.” 

“ Where is the fellow ? ” 

“ I do not know, indeed.” 

“ What! hasn’t he been to see you in your trouble? ” 

“ No ; he is in worse trouble himself somewhere, though 
I do not know where, or wliat it is. He wrote to me and 
told me so ; but said he would explain all to my satisfac- 
tion when he could see me. That was a few hours before 
3 


50 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


I was arrested,” said Sophie, speaking a little incoherently, 
as might be expected, from the confused state of her mind. 

“Humph! My daughter, where did you get those 
counterfeit bank notes ? ” 

“ Father, dear, I cannot tell you. I swore on the Bible 
never to tell 1 ” 

“ Who made you swear ? ” demanded the curate, striving 
to keep down his bursting wrath against the destroyer of 
his most innocent child. 

“ Father, love, I swore on the Bible not to tell that 
either. But I was not made to do it : I was only asked to 
do it.” 

“ Of course I know it was that — ” The curate checked 
himself before he had uttered some very bad but extremely 
appropriate language, and then said : 

“ Now, look here, my dearest child, that oath does not 
bind you in the least degree, under the circumstances. 
You got those notes from that adventurer who wiled you 
from your home, not because he loved you, and wished 
to make you his wife, or even his mistress, but because 
he wished to make you, with your innocent face, the 
agent, the unconscious agent, for changing his counterfeit 
notes into gold and silver. Having done this, and bound 
you by an oath not to betray him, he has gone off and left 
you to your fate ! — And what a fate, great God 1 — Now, 
Sophie, you must tell the whole truth. It is clear enough 
to me, without that ; but it will not save you, unless you, 
yourself, tell it, to your counsel and to other proper per- 
sons,” pleaded the curate. 

But here the father was met by a tearful firmness that he 
had not expected to find in his gentle child. She believed 
her lover to be true, to be involved in a net of false appear- 
ances, that would destroy him if she did not keep his 
secret. She had resolved to keep it under all circum- 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


51 


stances, “through fire and water,” and “unto death.” 
This resolution, in her lonely self-communings, had be- 
came a monomania, and when that happens all hope of 
changing it is over. 

Her father wept and prayed and exhorted in vain. He 
brought the chaplain to talk to her — in vain. 

He stayed with her until the hour of closing came, and 
then embraced her, and, weeping, left her. 

He found Joseph Grainger waiting for him at the gate, 
and they went together in search of counsel. If they 
could not procure “the biggest big-wig in London town,” 
they managed to retain a very capable man in Leonard 
Briscoe, of the Inner Temple. 

Having given him such a brief of the case as the 
curate could compile, they left him, and went to get 
lodgings at “ The Brindled Cow,” a small but decent inn, 
in the neighborhood of Newgate. 

The next morning the curate met the counsel by ap- 
pointment, and took him to Sophie Melville’s cell. 

There both father and counsel used their utmost efforts 
to prevail on the infatuated girl to give up the name of him 
who had made her his unconscious and innocent accom- 
plice — but in vain ! 

The counsel explained to her the great peril in which 
she was placed, and assured her, that if she were willing 
to give evidence, there could be no doubt that she would 
be accepted as King’s witness, and so be entirely cleared 
from punishment and even from censure — ^but in vain. 

“ If the King wants a foresworn traitor for his witness, 
he must go elsewhere, not come to me ! for I am not one, 
and will not be one, no ! not to save my life I not even to 
save the gray hairs of my father from going down ‘ in sor- 
row to the grave,’ ” she faltered, with white lips and brow 
as firm as marble. 

What could be done with a girl like this? 


52 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW THE SECRET WAS KEPT. 

Now, men of doom, work forth your will, 

For I can suffer and be still. 

And come he slow, or come he fast. 

It is but death that comes at last. — ScOTT. 

T he day of trial came. Sophie Melville was arraigned 
at the bar of the Old Bailey, on the charge of passing 
counterfeit Bank of England notes. 

Her gray-haired father attended her to the court. Her 
counsel, who had become deeply interested in this girl, so 
innocent yet so erring, so stubborn yet so heroic, had pre- 
pared the best line of defence he could possibly make. 

Yet the case against her was too strong — the counterfeit 
bank notes, passed in more than a dozen different neighbor- 
hoods, to more than fifty different individuals, were traced 
directly back to Sophie Melville’s possession, but could be 
traced no further, because she could not be induced to tell 
where she had procured them. 

Thus, in spite of her respectable birth, her most inno- 
cent and guileless appearance and the able defence of her 
counsel, Sophie Melville was convicted, and the penalty 
was death. 

I must remind you how rapidly the law took its course 
in the evil days of those good old times. 

Sophie Melville was convicted on Wednesday, and sen- 
tenced to be hanged on the following Monday, between the 
hours of seven and ten A. m., in the street, before Newgate. 

On receiving this sentence she fell swooning into the 
arms of her broken-hearted father, who was suffered b}'’ 
the pitying officers to bear her in those old armS^back to 
her prison cell, guarded on each side by two llailiffs, and 
attended by her counsel. 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


63 


When she opened her eyes again after her brief uncon- 
sciousness, she was lying on her prison pallet, with this 
group standing around her. 

“ Do not tell my poor mother. Never let my little sis- 
ters know,” were the first words whispered between her 
bloodless lips. 

“ Do not despair. Even now, if you will make a full 
revelation, the case shall be brought before the home sec- 
retary in a manner that shall insure your pardon,” said 
Counsellor Briscoe. 

She shook her head with woeful firmness. 

“ I am not giving false hopes,” said Mr. Briscoe to the 
broken-hearted father. “ If she will do this, she shall be 
saved.” 

“ I cannot recant,” she whispered, huskily ; “ I cannot 
recant. Father, your child is not made of the stuff that 
constitutes traitors.” 

No ; but of the fine clay that makes martyrs,” sighed 
the counsel. 

“The only difference is, that other martyrs have died 
for their constancy to God, while she will die for the sake 
of a devil whom she has set up as an idol to worship ! ” 
groaned the father. 

The two remained with her until the hour for closing, 
and then took a sorrowful leave. 

“If she cannot be moved to make the revelation, we 
must get up a petition for pardon without it. The time is 
short, but we must only be the busier,” said Mr. Briscoe. 

They found Joseph Grainger waiting on the sidewalk for 
his old friend. Joseph had, from the rarest feelings of 
delicacy, kept out of the sight of his fickle and unhappy 
love, while he was spending time and money in her ser- 
vice, and without her knowledge. 

Now he drew the old man’s arm within his own, and led 
him away to their lodgings. 


64 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


In the next few days a petition was drawn up, and 
signed by many people, even strangers who had only seen 
the unhappy girl in court, or had only read of her in the 
papers. 

The petition was presented to the home secretary by the 
gray-haired curate on his knees. 

That high official dignitary bade the suppliant rise, and 
told him that the document should receive consideration. 

And this was the consideration it received : On Satur- 
day morning it was returned with the information that the 
law must take its course ! 

The commercial safety of the great British empire, as 
represented to he imperilled by the utterance of a few 
paltry counterfeit hank notes, was of infinitely higher im- 
portance, it seemed, than the life of a silly girl who had 
got herself entangled in the law like a fly in a spider’s web. 

But one day more remained, the Sunday before the exe- 
cution, which was to take place between seven and ten on 
Monday morning. 

The wretched father got leave to spend the whole day in 
the cell of his more wretched daughter, reading the Scrip- 
ture to her, praying with her, but seldom talking. 

She lay on her back on the prison pallet, with her 
faded hands, wasted to skeleton thinness even in these 
few days, clasped over her death-like brow. 

If ever she spoke at all, it would be to whisper in a 
husky voice, 

‘‘ Oh, father, pardon me for bringing this great grief on 
you.” 

My child, you know I do. I love and pity you. My 
heart is bleeding for you — not for myself.” 

Or she would suddenly break forth — 

“ Oh, do not tell my poor, poor mother I Oh, 
never let my little sisters know.” 


never, 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


65 


So passed the last day. 

The hour of closing came ; hut the grief of the father at 
parting with his daughter was so extreme that the prison 
officers strained a point and permitted him to remain with 
her all night. 

What a night it was ! 

The girl lay as she had lain all day, on her hack on 
the outside of her pallet, with her hands clasped over her 
face; the father sitting at the foot of the bed, with his 
shoulders leaning against the wall — each stroke of the 
prison clock, as it struck hour after hour from the brief 
time left, cutting into the hearts of both. 

Towards morning the curate, who had been struggling 
with himself and praying for hours, spoke to his unhappy 
child and said — 

“ Sophie, my dear, do you hear me ? ” 

Yes, father, love,” she breathed. 

“ Sophie, our Saviour, hanging on the cross, forgave His 
murderers. Can you, my child, forgive the man who has 
destroyed you ? ” 

Yes, my father, even if he meant to do it — which I do 
not think — I can forgive him and all,” she murmured, 
faintly. 

“ Sophie, our dear Lord, on the cross, prayed for His 
murderers. Can you pray for your destroyer ? ” 

“Yes, father.” 

“ Then, my child, fold your hands and join me in prayer 
for the forgiveness and the redemption of Algernon De 
Courcey.” 

And the aged Christian, who, in these dreary hours in 
the valley of the shadow of death, had gained a mighty 
victory over his own spirit, knelt by the side of his daugh- 
ter’s cot and prayed for their bitterest enemy — for him 
who, for small gains, had betrayed the childlike daughter 


56 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


to death, and brought the gray hairs of the father to 
shame. 

After their prayer was over the curate arose and sat by 
the side of the girl and took her hand, and a peace, not of 
this world, fell on them. 

“ You have no fears, my child ? 

“ None, dear father, none. And it is so good you are 
so old. You will come to heaven very soon, dear father.” 

“ I will join you soon, my child.” 

“And Joseph, good Joseph, will marry my next sister, 
Melissa, who is better than I ever was, and he will take 
care of the family until the boys get places and the girls 
marry. But there, I must be done with the cares of this 
world, the time is so short now. See, the sun is rising, 
father,” she said, pointing to the /grated window, through 
which the first crimson beams were beginning to pierce, 
“ and I hear them stirring in the corridor. Father, I only 
want to say this before they come for me : Give my dear 
love to Joseph Grainger. Tell him that death has unsealed 
my eyes, and looking back, I see and know his worth.” 

They were interrupted by the entrance of the female 
turnkey, who brought the prisoner’s breakfast. 

Sophie divided the bowl of coffee with her father, but 
that was all that either of them could take. 

It was now full daylight. 

Soon the chaplain of the prison and the counsel of the 
prisoner came to the cell to see her. Both were surprised 
at the calmness of the father and daughter in the immedi- 
ate presence of separation and shameful death. 

It is true that her facQ was deathly pale, her eyes 
were dim and glazed with the horrors she had passed 
through, her cheeks were ashen hued, and her lips blue 
with past agony ; but she was quiet and resigned. 

“ My child wishes to receive her last communion here 


THE FATAL SECEET. 


57 


in her cell, and from my hands. Can she be permitted to 
do so? And will you help me?” inquired the curate of 
the chaplain. 

“ Certainly, willingly,” responded the latter. 

“ Will you join us, sir ? ” asked the curate of the 
counsel. 

Mr. Briscoe gravely bowed his head in return. 

The “fair linen cloth,” the bread and wine, and the 
books were brought and arranged upon the table. 

The solemn and pathetic communion service was read, 
and the elements consecrated by the two ministers. 

Sophie received the sacrament from the hands of her 
father and the prison chaplain. 

When the service was concluded, the chaplain and the 
counsel took an affecting leave of Sophie and her father, 
and left the cell — the chaplain to join her again on the 
scaffold. 

When they were left alone, the father and daughter had 
nothing to do but to wait. It was now half past eight 
o’clock. Within another hour she would be led out to 
die. By ten o’clock all would be over. 

“Have you any fears now, my child?” tenderly in- 
quired the curate. 

“ None, dear father, none — except a little shrinking of 
the flesh from physical torture,” she said, with an irrepres- 
sible shudder and a sudden paling of her face. 

“There will be none of that, my lamb. You will not 
suffer. It will be so sudden,” replied the curate, compel- 
ling his trembling voice to be steady. 

They sat on the side of the bed with their hands clasped 
together, until they heard the sound of many footsteps 
walking noisily down the corridor, and approaching the 
cell. 

“They are coming for me! They are coming! Oh, 


58 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


Jesus! Saviour! Support me in this last agony!” cried 
Sophie, her pallid face suddenly blanching to the hue of 
death. 

“Ay ! Call on Him ! Lean on Him ! He will surely 
sustain you, my child! ” said the curate, taking and clasp- 
ing her hand. 

The next moment the door opened and the procession 
entered and filled the narrow space of the cell. 

First came the sheriff, holding an open parchment in his 
hand. 

“ That is the death-warrant ! Oh, Saviour, support me ! ” 
prayed Sophie in her heart, as she clung to her father. 

Following the sheriff came the governor of Newgate, the 
chaplain of the prison, several other officers, and behind 
them all, Joseph Grainger. 

But nobody noticed the latter. 

“ Has the time come ? ” inquired the curate, in faltering 
tones, as he pressed his daughter’s form to his bosom. 

“ No, reverend sir ! If you mean the time for the execu- 
tion, it has not come. The execution is stayed ! ” said the 
chaplain, speaking for all. “I am here to congratulate 
you. The sheriff brings an order for the prisoner’s dis- 
charge.” 

“ Discharge ! ” echoed the father, in incredulous amaze- 
ment. 

“Discharge!” faltered Sophie, in a tremulous maze 
between despair and hope. 

“ Discharge ! ” repeated the chaplain. “ The ways of 
Providence are wondrous strange ! This injured girl could 
not be brought to make the revelation that would have 
saved her. But the wretch who made her his unconscious 
accomplice, and got her neck into the noose which he had 
earned for himself, has made^ a death-bed confession under 
circumstances that shall be explained hereafter. It is 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


59 


enough now to say that the sheriff will presently tell you 
that you are at liberty to take your daughter home.” 

“A glass of wine, for Heaven’s sake ! ” exclaimed Joseph 
Grainger, coming to the front, for he had seen Sophie sink 
heavily upon her father’s bosom, not swooning, but on the 
point of doing so. 

The sacramental wine was at hand. The chaplain 
poured some into a glass and placed it at her lips. 

She drank a little, thankfully, and was revived. 

They crowded around her. 

An hour later Sophie Melville was lying upon a comfort- 
able lounge in the private parlor of a family hotel. She was 
still very pale, but her features had lost their stony still- 
ness and her eyes their dim glaze. Fair, thin and quiet 
she looked like one thankfully recovering from illness and 
appreciating the renewal of life. 

Near her sat her old father, reclining in a large easy- 
chair ; and her childhood’s companion, sitting on an or- 
dinary one. 

The latter was saying : 

“ Yes ! And you may remember, parson, how I told 
you that highwayman’s face reminded me of some one I 
had seen, but couldn’t place, don’t you ? ” 

“ I do,” said the curate. 

“ As how should I, indeed, when it was stained up with 
walnut-juice or something, and disguised with a black 
wig, black eyebrows, and a false black beard ? — he being 
fair, with light hair, you know.” 

Yes.” 

“ Well, I did not know who he was, till I was sent 
for to his bedside yesterday, when I recognized Mr. 
Algernon De Courcey, who was known to the Bow street 
officers as Flashy Dick, Charley Cheek, or Cheeky Charley, 


60 


THE FATAL SECRET. 


Prince Cutpnrse, and so forth. He was dying, and he had 
made his confession in the presence of a magistrate, who 
took it down from his lips, and several witnesses, who 
signed it. So he had not sent for me to hear that, but to 
tell me, in my ear, on the faith of a dying man, that Sophie 
Melville was as pure a maiden as ever lived on the face of 
the earth — as if any one required his testimony to that I 
Well, it was fortunate I was there to hurry up those slow 
country constables, else that confession would not have 
been in the hands of the home secretary in time.’’ 

The curate shuddered. 

“ However, we knocked my lord up after he had retired ; 
told him it was a matter of life and death, and I must say 
he did bestir himself -when he learned what the matter 
was. We were in time.” 

“ When the bitterness of death had almost passed,” said 
the curate. 

“Not for me! Had she not been saved, the bitterness 
of death would have lasted all my life,” replied Joseph 
Grainger, with emotion. 

Hi****** * 

One year after this, Sophie Melville, recovered from her 
ill-placed fancy, for love it never was, and from all the evil 
effects that followed it, became the happy wife of Joseph 
Grainger. 

The young farmer sold his house and land, furniture and 
stock, for a sum of money that enabled him to emigrate 
to Australia, taking all his wife’s family with him. 

There in time he became a wealthy sheep farmer, and 
his father-in-law a bishop. His brothers entered business 
and flourished, and his sisters married well. And in the 
words of the immortal Rip Van Winkle, “ they all lived 
long and prospered.” 


ARCHIE’S LOVE. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

I N the sitting-room of a neat little cottage, out in the 
suburbs of W , sat a gentle, delicate-looking wo- 

man, waiting the coming of her son. The table was set 
for two with a dainty, tempting supper. The room, 
although inexpensively furnished, with the exception of a 
piano and a few fine pictures, bore the unmistakable 
mark of culture and refinement. 

“ Archie is late to-night,” his mother said. 

Just then the click of the gate latch, and directly after, 
slow, heavy steps, told of his coming. 

“ Something has worried him. When he comes thus I 
know his heart is as heavy as his step,” she said. 

When, a moment after, he entered the room, his pale 
face and compressed lips confirmed her fears. As he came 
forward to kiss her, she asked, anxiously : 

“Are you sick, my son ? ” 

“ I am suffering no bodily pain, mother ; neither have I 
fever; so don’t worry your dear heart. This terrible 
weather and the hard times cannot fail to make one feel 
dull — or blue, as you ladies say,” Archie answered with a 
sickly attempt at a smile. 

The loving mother’s heart was not quieted, yet she 
would not seek to force her son’s confidence. She felt that 
he would give it to her ere long. 

The supper was removed almost untasted. 


62 


aechie’s love. 


Archie went to the book-case and took from it a volume 
that he had been reading the night before. Drawing near 
the fire his arm-chair, he sat down. For nearly an hour 
he remained with the book before him, but his mother 
noticed that not one page had been turned. At length he 
threw down the book, started up, and approached the 
door, saying : 

“ I think I will go to my room now, mother.” 

‘‘ So early, dear? And are we not to have our music? ” 

“Music! Oh, mother, I feel as if I could never sing, 
never care for music again,” Archie answered. 

He stood still, holding the door partly open. A moment 
more, and he resumed his seat. 

Taking from his pocket a newspaper, he opened it 
and handed it to his mother, pointing to the following 
notice : 

“Marriage in High Life. — It is confidently asserted 
by the friends of both parties that the Hon. Mr. Belleford 
will soon lead to the altar the beautiful and accomplished 
daughter of our popular fellow-citizen, Wm. Arring- 
ton, Esq.” 

Archie’s eyes were turned from his mother’s face, or he 
would have seen that it flushed painfully for an instant. 
And then growing pale and calm again, she said, with a 
scarcely perceptible quiver in her voice : 

“Well, Archie?” inquiringly. 

“ Well^ mother I Oh, no, no, ’tis not well. All the ills of 
life could not be as this is to me.” And with a despairing 
gesture, Archie threw his arms across the table, and 
^ dropped his head upon them. 

“Archie, my boy, do you know this lady ? Can it be — ” 

“Yes, yes, mother, that I love her, more than my own 
life!” 

“ Oh, my son ! My heart aches for you, Archie ! Would 


Archie’s love. 


63 


that I could speak some word of comfort for you ! ” the 
gentle mother said, softly caressing the bowed head. 

“ Thanks, dear mother, that you do not chide. I thought 
perchance that you would ; and ask how dared I to aspire 
to win the hand of a millionnaire’s daughter? I, a poor 
book-keeper, with a salary of a thousand a year. Yes, to 
dare! That is the word her friends would use if they 
knew of it,” Archie said, bitterly. 

“ Tell me all about it, dear ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, yes. It will be a relief, I think. And almost a 
comfort to speak of her — to call her name ! Well, I met 
her first, and knew her before father’s death — at dancing 
school. I was her partner often er than any other boy. I 
think she liked to have me. The night of the May ball, 
do you not remember I led her from her throne to dance 
with me, the first? Oh, how proud I was that night! I 
loved her then. I thought not of her father’s wealth. I 
only knew how lovely she was. How gentle and kind. 
How charming in every way. Oh, I thought not to win 
her heart. I simply yielded mine entirely to her. I took 
no thought of the future. I only lived in the blessed 
present. But if I had given a thought to the future, then 
its prospects were not so dark, then I might have hoped, 
and thought of working to win her. When the dancing 
days were over, my little queen went away to school. I 
saw her no more for three years. She came into our store, 
nearly a year ago, when I saw her for the first time a 
grown young lady. I cannot tell you of my joy when I saw 
her enter. Yet, then and there, I remembered who she 
was, and what I was. Bending over my book I remained 
until I heard her voice. Extending her hand, she spoke 
to me in the old sweet way. I seemed in a happy dream. 
I cannot tell what she said. I only know her voice and 
eyes were filled with sympathy when she spoke of father’s 
death. She gave me her card, and said I must call.” 


64 


ARCHIE^S LOVE. 


New Year’s was near. I knew I could go then — one 
among her five hundred friends — and so I did. That 
was my first and last visit to the rich man’s daughter. 
But every morning since then, I have passed her home. 
And every morning I have seen her. I could not do with- 
out that morsel of happiness. I believe she felt how dark 
and dreary my day would be unless she threw that ray of 
sunshine upon it. And so for her smile and bow I have 
gone. But that is over now. I must go no more.” 

Again the young head was bowed, and the mother’s 
fingers softly smoothed the bright, waving hair, as she 
asked : 

^‘And the announcement — had you no intimation of 
this gentleman being a favored suitor ? ” 

“ No, oh, no. I knew, of course, some one would win 
her. But I never dreamed so soon. She is so young. And 
he is quite old enough to be her father. I never feared 
him. I have seen him with her. He is a noble-looking 
man. But his is not the manner of a lover. Ah, mother, 
he may love her, but ’tis not love like mine. I wonder if 
she has ever told him of me ? ” 

“ Of you, Archie? ” 

“Aye, mother; for, with God’s help, I saved her for 
him.” 

In answer to the puzzled expression in his mother’s eyes, 
he said : 

“I will tell you. You remember reading of Miss 
Arrington’s narrow escape, last spring, when her horse took 
fright and ran off? That afternoon, mother, I was acting 
as porter, giving James an opportunity to attend his sister’s 
wedding. I was not busy, and was really glad of a chance 
to get a few miles out of town. It was a lovely afternoon, 
and I felt happier than for a long time, meeting several 
friends. I was amused by their surprised look at seeing 


Archie’s love. 


65 


me on the wagon seat. I was more, that afternoon, like 
the merry-hearted youth of years gone by. And, mother, 
my mind was filled with thoughts of her, my queen. I 

felt that I should see her. I had driven out on road 

about a mile, when the clatter of hoofs behind caused me 
to turn. Great Heaven ! I recognized Miss Arrington on 
the terrified animal. Madly the creature came flying 
along. I saw she had lost control of him. On and on 
they came. Almost frantic myself with the thought of her 
danger, I dropped my reins, stood up, and stretched out 
my arms. I would snatch her from the saddle. I must 
and will save her. That was the only thought that entered 
my brain. She must have understood my motion and 
have divined the intention. As the horse came dashing 
by, she disengaged her foot from the stirrup, and leant 
forward toward me. Another instant, and I had her 
safely clasped to my heart — an instant only. 

“‘Thank God, my darling, you are safe!’ burst from 
my lips, as I placed her on the seat beside me. 

“ Pale, trembling, and almost fainting, she did not seek to 
disengage herself from my arm, which still supported her. 

“ We were only a few yards from a pleasant little cot- 
tage, with a vine-covered porch. I thought of the embar- 
rassing position, should her friend who was accompanying 
her come up. I said : 

“‘Miss Arrington, there is a shaded little nook. I will 
help you to a seat, if you please.’ 

“ Then, for the first time, she seemed conscious of my 
encircling arm, and, disengaging herself, she answered : 

“ ‘ Yes, do, I am very weak.’ 

“ I had scarcely placed her on the porch, when a youth, 
her cousin, came up to us. 

“Assuring him of her safety, she sent him back to the 
city for a carriage. 

4 


66 


Archie’s love. 


“ When I was about leaving her, she said : 

‘‘ If your time is not limited, Mr. Carlyle, I wish you 
would remain with me until my cousin returns.’ 

“ I knew she detained me to speak her thanks, which I 
had seen trembling on her lips and filling her eyes. Yet 
she spoke not until after I had explained my novel posi- 
tion, and spoke of the joy it had given me. Then she 
said, with quivering lips and eyes filled with tears : 

“‘You have saved my life, Archie.’ And holding out 
her hand, added in a voice low and full of regret, I thought 
— ‘and I can never, never repay you ! ’ 

“ I caught her hand, pressed it to my lips, dropped it 
and hurried away. I dared not trust myself an instant 
more. The next morning, as usual, I received her sweet 
smile and bow.” 

“ Oh, Archie, my son, she was not indifferent to you, I 
truly believe.” 

“ Yes, mother, I believe I might have won, had I been 
in a position to woo her. She knows I love her — she 
heard me cry as I caught her to my heart. 

“ The next day her father came to see me. Warmly he 
expressed his thanks, and spoke of his great obligation. I 
saw he wished to prove his sincerity by something more 
than words, so I said : 

“ ‘ Mr. Arrington, I have, and shall continue to thank 
Heaven, for granting me the opportunity to serve Miss 
Arrington. Believe me, sir, the only obligation due is mine 
to God.’ 

“ Grasping my hand, he said : 

“ ‘ Will you promise me, if in the future you may need 
a friend, you will come to me ? ’ 

“ I promised with thanks, and he went his way. But, 
mother, he never invited me to his home. Ah ! I think 
he read my heart aright, and thought it prudent not to. 


ARCHIE^S LOVE. 


67 


Now I have told you all, mother, and saddened your dear 
heart too. Kiss me good-night, and try not to worry about 
me.” 

As the door closed after her son, Mrs. Carlyle caught up 
the paper and read again the announcement of Miss Ar- 
rington’s betrothal. Again the sweet face flushed deeply 
as she said : 

“ Yes, yes ! I am sure it must be he ! ” And then her 
face grew pale again and troubled, as she murmured: 
“ How strange ! He does not dream that from the same 
bitter cup the father passed to him, the son is drinking 
now. Ah, ’tis hard to say ‘ Thy will be done,’ oft times in 
life. Poor son ! Poor mother ! ” 

Ivy Arrington sat waiting her lover’s coming. She was 
a fragile little beauty. A shade of sadness was on her fair 
face, as she toyed with a magnificent solitaire that sparkled 
on her first finger. A sigh escaped her lips. The jeweled 
hand was thrown across the arm of the chair, and she 
said: 

“ Why — why did I yield ? Why allow this ring to be 
placed on my finger, when I had no heart to give? Oh, 
what joy would fill my heart, if in the place of this I wore 
a less costly ring ! One to me of more value than all the 
jewels in the world, were it the pledge of his love ! ” 

Opening a little casket near by, she took from under a 
silken cushion a picture. It w^as Archie Carlyle’s like- 
ness. 

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she gazed on this 
noble face, and said : 

“ You love me, I know ! In one glance of your eye, I 
have seen more love than from all the looks of months 
from my— Oh, I cannot utter that word ! Yes, and in 
your voice sounded such depth of feeling, as he knows 
not. Oh, Archie, I heard your words, as you clasped me 


68 


ARCHIE^S LOVE. 


safe to your arms ! He may love me, but ’tis not love like 
thine ! Fate placed me in your arms ! Would that you 
could have held me there ! I should have been stronger — 
I should have been true to my own heart ! I should have 
waited for your coming, Archie ! You would have come, 
I know, sometime. But now, oh, my love, you never, 
never can come 1 ” 

She sank back in her chair, and no longer resisted ; the 
tears fell on Archie Carlyle’s pictured face. She had been 
so absorbed in her sorrow, she heard not the coming foot- 
step, nor was conscious of another’s presence, until a hand 
was placed under her chin, and her face gently raised to 
meet Mr. Belleford’s. 

“And so my little girl is very unhappy!” he said, still 
holding her face, and looking down into her eyes, kindly, 
but a little sadly, as he continued : “ I have thought of 
this, and feared it might come. And this is my rival I ” 

Taking Archie’s picture, he asked : 

“Have you accepted this from him since — ^since you 
knew my feelings. Ivy ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no. Not from him ever. From a friend, while 
at school. Her brother was his friend — ^his room-mate at 
college,” Ivy answered. 

Taking the picture, she was about returning it to the 
casket, when Mr. Belleford said : 

“ Nay, do not hide it away. I want to look longer at it 
by-and-by. Now come, my child, and give me your con- 
fidence. Open your heart freely to me. Ivy. There should 
be no concealments between us. I have been intending to 
tell you something of my past. Will you give up the 
opera to-night. Ivy, and let us have a quiet evening here, 
you telling me all about my rival, and I in return telling 
you of the sorrow of my youth ? ” 

Ivy expressed her willingness to remain, and Mr. Belle- 


AUCHIE^S LOVE. 


69 


ford gently drew her to a sofa, seated himself beside her, 
and taking her hand, he said : 

‘‘ Ivy, pardon me, dear child, for asking, and tell me 
truly, why did you accept me as your future husband ? ” 

The blushes on her sweet face deepened ; she hesitated, 
and then said : 

“ Because papa loved you so, and was so anxious to give 
me to you. I had not the strength or will to resist him. 
And then everybody thinks so highly of you, and so many 
of my young friends seemed to envy me the possession of 
your — your — ” 

“ My love, dear,” Mr. Belleford softly said. 

‘‘ And I — I thought papa never, never would even listen 
to the other lover. I had no hope, and so I began to 
think I should find happiness in making papa happy. 
And I tried to forget him ” — pointing to Archie’s picture. 

“ But, Ivy, you have grown to love me a little, surely ? ” 
Mr. Belleford said. 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, almost as well as papa ; better than 
either of my uncles.” 

With a smile of infinite tenderness !Mr. Belleford said : 

“ Yes, but not as you love another. Well, your heart is 
true to nature, dear Ivy. I am old enough to be your 
father — twenty-five years older than you, my child.” 

When Mr. Belleford had won from Ivy the whole story 
of her love, he said : 

‘‘He is a noble fellow, Ivy, and worthy of you, I am 
sure. But trust me. Ivy, I will prove how well I love you, 
and I will try to make you happy, little one.” 

“ Oh, I know you will. I never doubted you, only my- 
self,” Ivy said, quickl}^ 

“ You have not told me his name yet. Ivy.” 

“ No, I did not think I need — that you would care to 
know it. Mmt I ?” she said, low, her eyes and voice full 
of submission. 


70 Archie’s love. 

I must know my rival’s name, dear,” Mr. Belleford 
returned. 

^‘Archibald Carlyle,” she whispered low. 

“His likeness! Let me see it!” Mr. Belleford said, 
quickly. 

He took it from her, approached nearer the gaslight, 
and stood earnestly gazing on the youth’s picture. 

There was great agitation plainly visible on Mr. Belle- 
ford’s usually calm face, as he turned again towards Ivy. 
For several moments he remained as if in deep thought, 
his eyes shaded by his hand. 

Ivy’s gentle heart was troubled. Putting her hand softly 
into his, she said : 

“ I did not mean to hurt you. Forgive me.” 

There was love enough in his eyes then, as he turned 
them to hers, and said : 

“ Bless you, my little Ivy ! Say, rather, you are a dear, 
good girl, and I must keep you for my own.” 

There was a strange light in his eyes that puzzled Ivy. 

“ How long since this youth’s father passed from earth ? ” 
Mr. Belleford asked. 

“ Over two years.” 

“ Poor boy ! I can feel for him. Ivy, twenty-two years 
ago, I drained the same hitter cup that he is sipping now. 
I, too, loved with all my soul a lovely girl. We had 
pledged our hearts. I was poor then. But the future 
promised brightly. My love would wait my coming, I 
believed, and I was strong and could work to win a home 
for her. And so off to a new country I went. Every day 
brought me her loving, encouraging letters. 

“ At last, one day, came one that well nigh crushed the 
life from me. She was then on the eve of marriage. Oh, 
it was a pitiful, heart-breaking letter. She yielded to her 
dying father’s entreaties, and wedded his friend. My heart 
ached for her. I never felt that she was false to me. I 


Archie’s love. 


71 


prayed for her happiness. I knew the man who had won. 
her. I felt sure he would devote his life to making her 
happy. And so, after a while, a calm gathered over my 
troubled spirit. I never have heard of her — ” 

The door opened, and Mr. Arrington’s entrance left the 
sentence unfinished. 

Mr. Belleford soon arose to leave, saying that Ivy looked 
tired, and must retire. As he bade good-night, he whispered : 

“ Be in the library to-morrow evening at eight o’clock.” 

Archie’s sorrow weighed heavily on his mother’s heart, 
deepening the shade of sadness on her face. 

Although near forty years old, she was very lovely and 
very youthful-looking still. ’Tis true, her brown eyes had 
lost their brightness, and the laughing light had gone out 
suddenly, long years ago, but leaving in them a softened 
beauty. 

Archie was very proud of his mother, declaring that she 
was more beautiful than most of the girls he knew. 

The day after Archie had opened his heart to her, she 
sat in her little room. The sewing had fallen from her 
hands, when her thoughts wandered far back into the past. 
She neither heard the bell nor the opening of the sitting- 
room door. The servant’s words : 

“ A gentleman to see you, ma’am,” aroused her. 

. “ Allan ! ” she cried, starting forward with extended 
arms — only a step, and then pale and trembling, she stood, 
and would have fallen, but Allan Belleford’s arm was sup- 
porting her. ' 

“ Whv, Alice, are vou not glad to see me ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes— but— ” 

“ But never mind that. Years ago I went away to make 
a fortune for my promised bride. Well, I have done it. 
Alice, are you ready to come home to me ? Speak, love. 
I ’ve come for you at last.” 


73 


ARCHIE S LOVE. 


Ah, little Ivy, there is love enough in Mr. Belleford’s 
eyes and voice, too, now. 

He had gathered the still trembling woman closer to 
himself. With an effort to move off, she said : 

“ But, Miss Arrington. You forget — ” 

“ I forget everything but my love for you, Alice. Never 
mind about Miss Arrington. She will have a younger and 
better loved husband. There is one thing I do not forget, 
and that is, that I have to look out for the happiness of a 
great big boy of mine. Archie, my son, I mean. He will 
win his love. Am I to win mine, Alice ? ” 

If I can make you happy,” she whispered. 

“ God bless you, Alice ! ” Allan Belleford earnestly said, 
pressing his lips to hers. 

‘‘ Here comes our son now. I took the liberty of send- 
ing for him in your name.” 

A moment more and with an anxious look in his e3^es, 
Archie entered. Instantly recognizing Mr. Belleford, a 
frown gathered quickly on his brow. With a cold bow, he 
was acknowledging his mother’s introduction, when his 
hand was clasped, an arm thrown fondl}^ over his shoulder, 
and Mr. Belleford said, with joy breaking out all over his 
face : 

Come ! come ! clear away that frown, Archie, or I shall 
think you are not willing to accept me as your father, my 
boy.” 

“ Sir ! ” exclaimed the bewildered Archie. And then, in 
a lower, softer tone, he said : Miss Arrington ? ” 

I hope to claim her as my daughter some da3^ There ! 
there ! ease your heart, my boy, and try to win 3"our love, 
lour mother is the only one whose heart and hand I 
claim.” 

It was all so strange that Archie could scarce realize the 
truth. But after a little while he and Mr. Belleford went 
out together, and all was soon explained— the past, with 


♦ 


ARCHIE^S LOVE. 73 

its clouds of sorrow j the plans for a future of brightness 
and joy. 

Eight o’clock found Ivy waiting in the library. 

The door opened, and turning to greet her lover, she saw 
Archie Carlyle ! 

“ Am I welcome ? Mr. Belleford sent me to you ! ” Archie 
said, coming forward. 

“Welcome? Oh, yes!” Ivy said; and then, when her 
hands were clasped in Archie’s, she asked, her face alter- 
nately flushing and growing pale, “Where is Mr. Belle- 
ford? Oh, I do not understand. No, I ought not to be 
glad. I — I am his promised wife I ” 

“ Here I am, my darling girl. Here to give you back 
your promise. But hold you still, as my dear child ; to be 
won by some one you can learn to love in a different way 
from the love you give to me. There, I am going to talk 
to your father. I will make all right with him. God 
bless you, my children.” 

I am not going to play eavesdropper in this love scene, 
so shall leave with Mr. Belleford. First, because Archie is 
a young hand at love-making, and maybe an awkward one ; 
and more particularly because I ’m very much afraid Ivy 
did a share of the love-making herself. Mr. Belleford, true 
to his word, did make all right. Archie felt sure of this 
when, near the close of the evening, Mr. Arrington came in 
and shook hands cordially with him. 

There was a quiet little wedding, a few weeks after, and 
the fashionable world were surprised beyond expression 
when it became known that Mr. Belleford had wedded one 
unknown to them. 

Archie is studying law ; in two years he will graduate. 
^Ir. Arrington has no fears about his future son-in-law. 
Indeed, he feels quite sure he is on the high road to fame 
as well as fortune. 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

By the world ! 

I think my love he honest, and think she is not ; 

I think that thou art just, and think thou art not. 

I’ll have some proof. — S hakspeabe. 

adopted daughter is very handsome, Ellen. 

JL My quiet, demure little Annie will be scarcely 
seen ; indeed, quite eclipsed by the brilliant Lucia.” 

“Yes, Lucia is handsome; but — ” and Mrs. Davenport 
hesitated. A sigh escaped her lips, and an anxious expres- 
sion settled on her face, as she answered her friend’s 
inquiry : 

“ What is it that troubles you, Ellen? ” 

“I will tell you. I ought to; and I feel sure you will 
lend me your assistance. And with dear, good little 
Annie’s example, my Lucia may be won from that love of 
ornament which causes me so much uneasiness. Indeed, 
it was from this hope that I accepted your invitation for 
Lucia to spend the winter with you.” 

“ Annie’s example may do her good. I hope so ; she is 
so very different. Although she is only my adopted child, 
as Lucia is yours, I love her very dearly, and have a 
thought that some day she will be nearer to me. I know 
of no one I would so willingly welcome as my son’s wife. 
I do not know what I should do without her little helping 
hands. Although there is no necessity for it, she must 
(74) 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


75 


always be busy about something. And about dress, her 
ideas are so very modest. She dislikes so much to attract 
attention. I have often to scold her, to have her appear in 
a style which her position really demands. You know she 
has quite a fortune, independent of mine,” said Mrs. 
Wilton. 

“ Yes, I’ve heard so. Well, you will have your heart 
and hand both full this season, in controlling and directing 
these girls, so entirely opposite to each other.” 

“ They may do each other good. Annie ought to gain a 
little appreciation of worldly good. And indeed I wish 
she did care a little more about dress. Point lace and 
diamonds afford her no more gratification than plain white 
linen, or simple jet or gold ornaments.” 

‘‘And poor Lucia would almost sell her heart for 
diamonds. Indeed, I believe the man who can give her 
the most of them will win her hand, if her heart should 
ache forever after ! ” 

A few days after the above conversation, Mrs. Daven- 
port returned to her home, leaving Lucia with her friend 
Mrs. Wilton. 

Notwithstanding Lucia’s failings were known to her 
hostess, she became very much attached to the orphan 
girl, who was so beautiful, bright, winning, and generally 
pleasant and entertaining. All, for a time, yielded to her. 

Mrs. Wilton thought her quite an acquisition to her little 
home circle, and indispensable at the receptions and 
parties of the season. 

George Wilton loved his mother’s favorite, the gentle 
little Annie, and he had told her so many times. Still 
there was no positive engagement between them. When 
Lucia first came to visit Mrs. Wilton, George did not seem 
very much taken with either her handsome face or easy, 
cordial manner. 


76 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


“ She was excessively vain, and too fond of admiration 
so he said to Annie. 

But after a while he grew more tolerant of Lucia’s faults ; 
a little longer, and he lingered to listen to her merry voice, 
then sought her side, and finally Annie’s quiet, artless little 
ways no longer won him, even for an hour, from the bril- 
liant girl’s presence. 

Annie’s heart ached bitterly, but bravely she hid it, even 
from Mrs. Wilton, her dearest friend. 

As the weeks of her residence with her friends wore on, 
Lucia’s restraint gradually passed away, and many times 
her ruling passion broke forth in a most glaring and dis- 
figuring light. 

On one occasion, after returning from a large party, she 
entered her room, and, unmindful even of the presence of 
Mrs. Wilton, she tore off her muslin dress, and throwing 
it down, stamped upon it ; and in a perfect fury of envy 
and disappointment, she raged until exhausted, because 
she could not dress in diamonds and satin, like a new star 
that had just appeared in the fashionable firmament, and, 
of course, quite eclipsed Lucia that evening. 

Sorely grieved, Mrs. Wilton tried to soothe and calm the 
excited girl, but with little effect. 

George’s infatuation was unmistakable. Lucia was daily 
gaining a greater influence over him, and his mother 
dreaded the result. Yet how could she open his eyes to 
the unwortliiness of the object of his preference ? 

About that time cards were issued for a very brilliant 
reception ; Mrs. Wilton and her family receiving theirs. 

^Immediately the question arose, “What shall we wear?” 
Lucia declined, and she could not and would not go unless 
she had a new and handsome dress. 

Gentle Annie sought to try and soothe her, by delaying 
her arrangements until Lucia could make them too, and 
remained with her. 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


77 


After a short absence, Mrs. Wilton returned with an 
anxious look; and after hastening up to her room, she 
came down again and said : 

‘‘ I went out, intending to bring you both home a present, 
but I have met with quite a loss — a hundred dollars. I 
hoped it might have gotten out of my pocket-book some- 
how before I left my room, but I’ve looked in vain ! ” 

Both girls started up, and exclaimed : 

Let us go hunt for you ; ” and, “ Where can you remem- 
ber having it last?” 

But all hunting was of no avail. The money was gone. 

Three days before the evening of the reception Lucia re- 
ceived a letter from home. And with great apparent satis- 
faction she asked Annie to go with her to get her dress and 
trimmings. 

Although there were many more elegantly dressed 
women present that gala night, none looked more beauti- 
ful than Lucia, in a rose-colored silk, covered with puffings 
of tulle, the neck and sleeves trimmed with point lace. 

Mrs. Wilton did not conceal her surprise at the beautiful 
dress, which, with its trimming, she knew must have cost 
a sum much more than she had supposed Mrs. Davenport 
could afford to give her. 

“ Well, Lucia, you are contented to-night, I trust. You 
were admired sufficiently, and there was not a more beau- 
tiful dress in the room. Nothing was wanting,” said 
Annie. 

“ Yes, something was. I had no jewels. Let me don 
yours for a moment, Mrs. Wilton, and see how I will look 
when I have diamonds of my own,” said Lucia. 

Mrs. Wilton was just removing her wrappings. Throw- 
ing off the opera hood, she unhooked one ear-ring, and 
handed it to Lucia ; then, putting her fingers to her other 
ear, she exclaimed : 


78 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


“ See I I have pulled the other out. It has caught in 
the tassel or fringe of my hood. I had it when I came up- 
stairs, I know. Look quick, girls ! Be careful not to tread 
on it.” 

Both girls commenced to look over the wrappings. The 
hood was turned in and out ; every inch examined care- 
fully. But it could not be found. 

George was called and joined in the hunt, through the 
halls, up and down the stairs. 

“ It may be on the pavement. But it will not be wise 
to take a light out to hunt to-night. I will get up with the 
first ray of light and look,” said George. 

“ Look again, girls. I feel so sure it must be in among 
those things. I will give the one who finds it twenty-five 
dollars.” * 

But the offered sum failed to bring it forth. It could 
not be found that night, nor the next morning. 

Mrs. Wilton was closeted with her son. As if fearful 
that the walls had ears to hear the words, she bent her 
lips, and whispered into his, words that caused him to 
spring up and cry out : 

“ Oh, mother ! you are unjust ! How can you ? Such 
a thought is unworthy of my mother, usually so kind and 
just!” 

Again she whispered low into his ear, and his face grew 
grave, puzzled, and anxious. 

“ I will not let such a suspicion linger for one moment 
in my mind. Why should you, mother ? No, no I Cast 
it forth I ” 

“ I will not breathe it to any other, my son. I hope it 
may be as you say.” 

The evening of the next day the family were in the sit- 
ting-room, Lucia trifling over her work-box, when Mrs. 
Wilton, greatly to George’s ji^mazement, said : 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


79 


“ Lucia, I see you have a safe little box there. Please 
lock up this ear-ring. I had it showing to a friend who, 
seeing our advertisement of the other’s loss in the paper, 
asked to look at this. I do not want to go up-stairs to 
put it away. Just keep it until I ask you for it.” 

Speculations relative to the missing jewel were the con- 
tinual subject of conversation wdth the family and every 
calling friend. 

The afternoon following the night that Mrs. Wilton had 
given Lucia the ear-ring to keep for her, some friends were 
speaking of it, and Mrs. Wilton said : 

“ Lucia, I will take that ear-ring now, please. George, 
dear, go up and ask Annie for Lucia’s work-box — ” 

“ Why, Mrs. Wilton, I gave it to you last night ! ” an* 
swered Lucia, quickly. 

George stopped. 

Mrs. Wilton said . 

My dear, you wdll see you have it. Just look, I can- 
not be mistaken. George, get the box.” 

“ Why, surely, Mrs. Wilton, I gave it to you I We were 
up in your room, you and I, and — ” 

“ Lucia, if you will look well, you will find the ear-ring 
that I have not got,” answered Mrs. AVilton, and looking 
into Lucia’s eyes, her own speaking more than her tongue 
could ever have ; the words so dreadful would have faltered 
and died in the attempt for utterance. 

Lucia gazed amazed, terrified an instant ; and the bright 
crimson flush which had spread over her face when she 
first denied the possession of the jewel, gave place to a 
deathly paleness, and she faltered : 

“ Indeed I gave it to you. I — I — ” 

‘^And I will declare, to the public if necessary, you have 
it still in your possession. Will you get it, Lucia? ” 
Footsteps were heard on the stairs— George’s. 


80 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


With a powerful effort for composure, Lucia said, as he 
entered : 

“ I — was so frightened ! I knew I had taken it out to 
give you. I remember now. When I retired I put it in 
my trunk, for more perfect safety. I will get it.” 

In a few moments she returned, and placed in Mrs. 
Wilton’s hand the ear-ring. 

That night, when the girls had retired, Mrs. Wilton 
called George into her room, and opening her jewel-box, 
displayed, to his amazement, both ear-rings. 

With a warning movement, she hushed the cry that was 
about to escape his lips, and in a whisper, he asked : 

“ Where did you find it ? ” 

Where I told you.” 

“ Oh, no, no, no I ” 

“Yes.” 

“She gave them both to you?” he asked, with a sup- 
pressed groan. 

“ She did. As you heard her say, one last night — that 
which you saw me give her. I asked her for it when we were 
alone, with no witness, you see. This afternoon you heard 
me demand it. I looked at her. She saw I had her com- 
pletely in my power then, and brought forth the missing 
one, that she had taken that night when I first dropped 
it. It was an experiment.” 

“ But if you had been mistaken, mother, what then ? ” 

“She would have proved her innocence by insisting, 
notwithstanding my words, and more than words, my 
looks, that she had given it to me. And I should have 
seen that I was wrong.” 

The next day Lucia stated that she was called imme- 
diately home, and bade them “ good-by ” the same even- 
ing. George escorted her to the depot, and was very kind. 


THE LOST JEWEL. 


81 


But there was an air of deep dejection about him, that, 
like his mother’s looks, spoke more than words. 

Mrs. Wilton informed her friends that she had found 
the ear-ring, it having been restored to her through the 
efforts of a detective. 

About the missing money, nothing was ever known to 
prove the guilt of any one ; only suspicions lurked in the 
minds of those who had cause to doubt the honesty of 
one. 

George was, after a while, restored to his former position 
in Annie’s loving and forgiving heart ; and in a year after 
his temporary blindness — caused, he says, by too close 
proximity to such a light object — ^Annie became Mrs. 
Wilton. 

Her mother no more regrets Annie’s disregard of fine 
dress and jewels. Better so than, as it might be, of the 
danger into which such a passion might lead its possessor. 
She had a touching example. 

5 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


EAR me I I never was so puzzled in my life ! Harry, 



JL/ do help me. Which do you think the prettier ? 
Mamma cannot decide any better than I. Two days ago, 
she declared nothing could be more elegant than this one. 
Yesterday she was not so sure about deciding on my keep- 
ing it, because the exquisite fineness of the other one ren- 
dered it rather more desirable. To-day they are both so 
beautiful she cannot say which she admires the most. Now 
what shall I do? I declare I am really ashamed of 
myself! I am sure Mr. Goodman will think I am a very 
troublesome customer. I’ve exchanged first one for the 
other, I would not like to tell how many times. And now 
I have both here, I am just as much undecided as ever.” 

Mrs. Morton’s usually bright face wore a sadly perplexed 
look as she turned her eyes appealingly on her husband. 

“Oh, Nellie, love, do clear your brow ! You look as if 
you had the care of a nation on your mind, instead of the 
purchase of a lace shawl. Now tell me the merits of each, 
and I will give you the benefit of my opinion.” 

The hall bell sounding just then caused a pause in the 
conversation, and^few moments after the servant entered, 
presenting a card. 

Mrs. Morton, glancing at it, said : 

“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Nelson. I think their call quite 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


83 


opportune. I shall bring them in here, and get their opin- 
ion too. They have both excellent taste.” 

“ Yes ; and in a multitude of minds we may find wisdom 
enough to decide the weighty matter,” Harry Morton said, 
laughing, as his wife hastened to her friends. 

A few moments after, Nellie returned with Mr. and Mrs. 
Nelson. After a cordial greeting, Harry entered into a 
humorous description of his wife’s and mother-in-law’s 
perplexity concerning the shawl. 

Nellie listened quietly for some time, until Harry’s ac- 
count of the frequent receiving and returning of the shawl, 
and the imaginary conversation between Mr. Goodman and 
his clerks on the subject, getting a little too ludicrous for 
her to bear very amiably, she exclaimed, with great dis- 
gust: 

“ Come, Mrs. Nelson, we will go up into mamma’s room, 
and talk with her about this, matter. Harry seems deter- 
mined to turn it into ridicule.” 

‘‘ No, no, Nellie ; I humbly crave pardon. I could not 
help indulging in my ruling propensity, particularly when 
I had so good a subject. Call mamma, and then we will 
enter into a grave consideration,” said Harry, trying to 
keep back his smiles. 

“ I know very well you are almost dying to say a man 
could decide all subjects, great or small, without calling in 
all his relatives, connections and friends to assist him ! ” 
said Nellie, with a rueful countenance, giving Harry a sly 
pinch. 

“ Well, dear, you have said it for me. I shall only add, 
all subjects, from the selection of a wife to the purchase of 
a pair of boots. But, to be sure, he may be pincMd by his 
choice,” answered Harry. 

“Oh, indeed, Harry, you are too provoking.” 

“ Never mind, Mrs. Morton. I ’m going to tell Harry a 


84 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


little story, to prove a man cannot always make a selection 
even of a wife without getting some friend’s assistance,” 
said Mr. Nelson. 

“Why, you do not mean to say a man, or the man, 
could not tell which woman he loved the best, do you ? ” 

“ Indeed I do, Morton. Now, Mrs. Morton, if you will 
call your mother, I will proceed with my story.” 

Nellie’s mother soon joined them, and Mr. Nelson began. 

“My friend — we will call him Charles Barnard — had 
reached the age of thirty-five, and still remained unmarried. 
Some of his friends declared him a confirmed old bachelor, 
with no tender feeling for the fair sex ; others, that in his 
youth he had loved and been disappointed. This was true 
in part. He was betrothed to a lovely girl, who died a few 
weeks previous to the time appointed for their marriage. 
Charley remained true to her memory for twelve years ; 
and indeed I believe he would have continued so for life, 
had not accident thrown him in the way of one whose re- 
semblance to his first love was very striking. His profes- 
sion as a physician carried him to visit a clergyman, who 
had long been suffering from some chronic disease. Doc- 
tor Barnard could do nothing more for him than several 
others whose advice had been sought — only afford him 
temporary relief. 

“ However, the invalid at his first interview conceived 
a warm regard for the doctor, which, proving mutual,, 
ripened into a sincere friendship. There it was Charley 
met the lovely girl who reminded him so much of the one 
he had lost. May was truly beautiful and charming in 
every way, but not less so was her sister Blanche, who was 

. -'Jii 

two years younger. 

“ About a year after. Doctor Barnard having visited them 
daily during the time, their father died, leaving his loved 
ones to the care of his friend. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


85 


*^The little family, mother and daughters, placed the 
greatest confidence in, and consulted the doctor upon all 
business arrangements and matters of importance^ 

“ Up to this time, whether the doctor had really decided 
upon marrying, I cannot tell; but rumor declared that 
May was his choice, and even told of a speedy union. 

“A younger brother, William Barnard, coming home 
from a European tour about that time, was introduced by 
the doctor to the lovely sisters. After visiting them for 
several weeks, during which time he had tried in vain to 
determine which his brother really loved, adopting the 
views of Madam Rumor, he said: 

“ ‘ Well, Charley, when are you going to be married ? ’ 
“‘Married! Who said I was going to be married at* 
all ? ’ answered Charles, looking very innocent of any such 
design truly. 

“ ‘ Who ? Why, everybody,’ William replied. 

“ ‘ Indeed 1 And who to, I’d like to know ? ’ 

“ ‘ Now, Charley, I declare you are verdant if you sup- 
pose you can visit a lady for eighteen months, and folks 
not know it. Everybody says and expects you to marry 
May, of course,’ William said. 

“ ‘ Well, I do love May dearly, better than anybody in 
the world, except Blanche — ” 

“‘Blanche?" Charley, you love her? You will marry 
her? ’ William asked, with manifest anxiety. 

“‘Yes, I love Blanche. But— well, not better than 
May. That is, I don’t think I do. Now, Will, just stop 
staring at me, as if you thought me non compos mentis, and 
I will tell you the truth of the matter. When I first saw 
May, I loved her more for another’s sake than her own. 
Afterward her intelligence, wit, sprightliness, and general 
loveliness so won upon me that I was really on the point 
of offering her my hand and heart, when Blanche came 


86 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


home from visiting her relatives. Now, Will, you know 
yourself you cannot tell which is the more beautiful. 
Well, with Blanche’s blue eyes, so full of gentle, lovely 
light, looking into mine, I was not so certain I loved the 
bright, flashing, black eyes enough to lose the blue ones.’ 

“‘Pshaw, man. I should think you were old enough • 
to know your own mind. Besides, what are eyes, or the 
color of them ? It is the woman, her mind and heart,’ 
interrupted Will, impatiently. 

“ ‘ Just so. Will. But don’t break in again until I tell 
you all about it. I adore May, because she is so full of 
energy, enthusiasm, and noble impulses. She does me 
good, helps me in every way. She is just the woman for 
'a physician’s wife. Yes, I do think I will go; tell May I 
love her, and ask her to be mine,’ Charley then said, 
jumping up, and putting his hand on his hat. 

“ ‘ That’s right, old fellow ! I am so glad you have de- 
cided. You will be much happier, I know,’ said Will, 
grasping his hand. 

“You may have seen that Will was very much inter- 
ested in the subject, and very anxious to secure May as a 
sister. You can imagine where he was drifting. But 
Charley did not suspect at all. 

“An hour passed, during which time Will still sat in the 
office, his mind busy planning a happy future, which was 
suddenly interrupted by Charley’s return. 

‘“What, back so soon?’ exclaimed WiU. ‘Am I to 
congratulate you ? ’ 

“‘Oh, no.’ 

“‘No? Not rejected, I hope,’ said Will, with an anx- 
ious face. 

“ ‘ No, not so bad as that. I’ll tell you. As I was near- 
ing the house, indeed had gotten right opposite, I beheld, 
seated at the window, Blanche. Her face, resting on her 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


87 


hand, had such a sad, sweet look — she was in deep thought 

that I felt like going right to her, telling her how much 
I loved, and trying to cheer her sadness. The gentle, 
darling girl ! ’ 

“ ‘Well, Charley, you are enough to try the patience of 
a saint. IVe been waiting here, expecting your return 
with the best of all news, happy as a man can be, and 
instead — ’ 

“ ‘ Never mind. Will,’ said Charley. 

“ But Will did mind. He was more disappointed than 
he cared to let his brother know. 

‘“You see. Will, a man must not be in a hurry about 
such things,’ continued Charley. 

“ ‘ If you mean about determining which of two girls a 
man loves, I think he ought to be in a hurry,’ Will said. 

“ ‘ But I love both. I’m going to tell you how I feel now. 
Instead of having May, to inspire me to greater and better 
deeds, and nerve me to work on for the good of my fellow- 
men, I want, when I return home at night, wearied with 
hard work, to rest — to be loved, soothed, comforted, rested. 
Dear little Blanche is the one to give me this : to rest my 
head on her bosom, and have her caressing little fingers 
smoothing my brow, toying with my hair — ’ 

“ ‘ What the thunder is the matter with you? ’ exclaimed 
Charley, suddenly, stopping and gazing at Will, who, dur- 
ing his brother’s description of his feelings, had winced 
considerably. At last it grew more than he could stand, 
and starting up, overturning the chair, he began to pace 
the floor. 

“ ‘ What is the matter. Will ? ” 

“ ‘ The matter will be brain-fever, if I remain here with 
you. You are enough to give it to any one,’ answered Will. 

“‘Oh! really. Will, you ought to pity my condition, 
sympathize with me, and not get out of temper — ’ 


88 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“‘I’ll get out of town this very afternoon, hoping when 
I get back again, you will have decided which you are 
going to ask to be your wife.’ 

“And true to his word, Will left, to visit some relatives 
in a neighboring town. Returning after an absence of ten 
days, and finding Charley, he asked the question, the 
answer to which was so important to himself. 

“ ‘ Well, Charley, how is it ? Have you made up your 
mind, and won your love ? ’ 

“‘No. May has been away for a week ; just returned, 
two days ago. Really, I felt perfectly sure Blanche was 
the one I loved above all in the world, and I was deter- 
mined to tell her so. That very day May came home. I 
never felt until that evening how much she was to me. 
What a noble girl she is ! I — yes, I thmky to-night I’ll 
settle the matter ! ’ 

“ ‘ Do so, Charley. I think myself May is the one for 
you.’ 

“‘Yes. But — 0 dear! — sweet, gentle Blanche. How 
can I give her up? Oh, Will, pity, help me I ’ 

“ ‘ I vow I will I ’ answered Will, starting up, catching 
his hat, and opening the door. 

“Just then a gentleman came in in great haste, and 
carried Charley off. So the brothers did not meet again 
until the next morning, when Charley said : 

“ ‘ Now, Will, what can you do to help me in my di- 
lemma ? ’ 

“ ‘ I’ve settled the affair for you,’ Will answered, his 
whole face expressing his great satisfaction. 

‘“Settled! How?’ 

“ ‘ Why, you have no longer a choice. Blanche is my 
promised wife,’ Will said, exultantly. 

“ ‘ Will, old boy, is it really so ? Did you ask her ? Does 
she love you? Is this the truth? You know you love 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


89 


her ? ’ Charley said, looking the very picture of agreeable 
surprise. 

“ ‘ Yes, to all questions.’ 

“And before Will could say another word, Charley’s 
arms were about him, clasping him to his heart, exclaiming: 

“ ‘ Oh, Will, you are the dearest, best, jolliest brother 
that ever lived ! Hurrah ! I cannot tell you how glad 
I am ! ’ 

“And releasing Will for a moment, he rubbed and 
clapped his own hands, then caught Will’s, and shook 
them until the poor fellow cried out for mercy. 

“ ‘ Happy ? I’m the happiest fellow alive. Will ! I 
know now it is May I’ve loved all the time. But, you see, I 
could not bear the thought of losing Blanche. Now my 
brother having her is the next thing to having her myself. 
Both of the dear girls in the family ; that will be happi- 
ness, sure enough. Now, you see, when I want rest, and 
so on, I can come to Blanche — ’ 

“‘Yes; and she will provide you with a comfortable 
chair, and a pillow to rest your weary head upon ; while 
for your tangled locks I’ll endeavor to find a comb, instead 
of my wife’s fingers,’ Will replied, with a merry laugh. 

“‘Oh, you rascal! But I will not quarrel, you have 
made me so happy,’ Charley exclaimed, again grasping his 
brother’s hand. 

“ It is needless to add that in a few weeks there was a 
double wedding. And there is not a happier man living 
than Doctor Charley— excepting your humble story-teller 
— notwithstanding some one else decided for him the all- 
important question.” 

“ But you have not told us how happy Will was,” said 
Nellie. 

“ I think I did,” Mr. Nelson said, his wife breaking into 
a merry little laugh. 


90 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ No. Oh ! now I believe I comprehend. Is it possible 
you are — ” 

“ J list so, madam. Here, at your service, are the Blanche 
and Will of my story — two living witnesses of the truth 
thereof. Now, Morton, I think you will stop teasing your 
wife about her wavering between the shawls,” Mr. Nelson 
said. 

“ Really, Nelson, your story needs living witnesses,” said 
Harry. “ But thanks, for its telling has decided the im- 
portant question agitating Nellie’s mind. Like the doctor, 
she cannot make up her mind to give up either ; so we will 
keep them both in the family. And as a peace-offering, I 
will give one to Nellie, the other to mamma; hoping the 
latter will be rather more generous with the object of her 
admiration than the Will of your story, and permit hers 
to comfort Nellie, and rest on her shoulders, too.” 


WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

want me to tell you how it was that Eleanore 
i Fulton married as she did? Dear, dear, that 
child was the greatest care of my life. It was just like her 
to marry Carl Thurston. Well, I must tell you how she 
W'as in her childhood, and then you will see how it was to 
be. There were three of them. . Florence, the oldest, a 
beautiful brunette, dark, dignified, and discreet. There 
was no fear but Flory would always be just what was proper 
and best for her. Then came Lilly — fair, frail, fond little 
Lilly — with her golden hair, and deep blue eyes — eyes 
that drew all the little boys about her in her childish days, 
and as many big ones when she grew to be a young lady. 
She was a sensitive little creature, that could not look on 
anything repulsive without fainting, with a perfect passion 
for everything beautiful. She had only such about her. 

“While Eleanore — Nell, we call her — was the ‘stray 
one,’ they said — a little brownie, and to my eye, the beauty 
of the family, with nut-brown hair, and eyes the brownest 
and brightest ever seen, and the brownest skin, too, ‘ that 
ever a white child had,’ her mamma declared. For never 
a bonnet or a hat would she keep on a moment longer than 
she could help. The rosiest cheeks and reddest lips that 
ever a girl had, had our Nell. ‘ Sparkling, spirited, spiteful 
Nell !’ the boys called her. Ah ! she had the keenest wit, 

( 91 ) 


92 


WHY DID SHE MAERY HIM? 


the sharpest tongue, and the softest heart that I ever 
knew. 

“ I remember well one day, a circumstance occurred that 
told plainly enough how it would be in the future with 
her. 

“ She was just six years old then, when the grandmother 
sent the little ones a lot of chickens. 

“ Each child was given permission to choose one for its 
own. 

“Flory quickly spied a fine, large and proud-looking 
hen. Lilly caught up and fondled a pretty little bantam, 
calling it ‘ beauty.’ 

“And Nell actually chose a. broken-legged, miserable, 
ugly one, only about half-covered with feathers. 

“ ‘ Mercy, Nell, take the horrid thing away,’ cried Lilly. 
‘ Why on earth did you take it ? ’ 

“ With a disdainful toss of her head, Nell moved off to 
meet her mother, who said : 

“‘My daughter, there are several beautiful chickens. 
Why do you not take one of them ? ’ 

“ ‘ Because I like this one best ! ’ Nell said, decidedly. 

“ ‘ Nell, come here and tell mamma why you choose this 
lame, ugly chicken ? ’ 

“‘Because it is ugly and lame, and because I knew 
nobody else would have it, and I was sorry for it ; and I’m 
just going to take care of it, and — and I know it is a good, 
nice chicken, if it is ugly, but it ain’t. And I don’t care 
if it is — I love itl’ The bright, laughing eyes grew 
thoughtful, then sad ; and when she had said her say, they 
were hashing and defiant, and she was ready to fight for 
her chosen one, if necessary. 

“ There, now, you can see for yourself, how it was to be 
with her. 

“ ‘ Dear, dear,’ said her mother, ‘ I’m fearful some day 


WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 93 

you will be choosing a husband because you are sorry for 
him, and no other girl will have him.’ 

“We lived but a step from the college. But if it had 
been miles away, our beauties would have drawn the lads 
quickly enough. 

“ They came by the score. I would peep through the 
curtains sometimes to see how it was with them. Just as 
I thought. Flory had tall, elegant-looking ones around 
her. You could tell by a glance they came of a proud 
race. 

“And Lilly was always off in a corner with some one — 
always only one at a time — who was sure to be the most 
charming fellow in the room, and who loved and read to 
her poetry, and never tired turning over for her the volume 
of engravings she loved. 

“ But Nell I liked to watch. She had more beaux than 
both the others, only she wouldn’t keep them. She laughed 
at them, and I truly believe they were afraid of her — or 
rather that dreadful little tongue. 

“ When Flory was nineteen, she did as they hoped and 
expected, married a wealthy young Southerner, who 
placed her at the head of a magnificent establishment, 
where she presided with queenly grace. 

“ Lilly was slow in making her choice. In truth, she 
liked so many — I might say loved, for, as I’ve told you, 
she loved everybody and thing lovable : one for his won- 
drous eyes, another because his brow was more beautiful 
than any she ever saw. Well, there were at least six who 
possessed some particular attraction. However, there was 
one who we all thought had made up his mind to win 
her. 

“ Harry Seymour it was. He liked Nell best when he 
first came, but she gave him not a word of encouragement. 
So he took to Lilly. He was just the dearest fellow that 


94 WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 

ever lived ; handsome enough to please Lilly ; frank, honest, 
merry-hearted ; always thoughtful for the comfort of others, 
and with wealth enough to make him attractive without 
one of these better possessions. 

“ He was winning his way with Lilly, when some one 
of the young gentlemen introduced Carl Thurston. Oh, I 
wished he had been anywhere but in our house. Well, 
Nell never laughed at him. She was as gentle as a dove 
to him, spending hour after hour, and evening after even- 
ing, seated beside him, singing for him, reading to him. 

“ ‘ Dear, dear ! she will make him grow to love her. 
And then— what then ? I dread to think of it,’ her mother 
said, growing very much concerned. 

“ ‘ Why will you do so, Nell?’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Because, aunty, he is blind. Nobody else will enter- 
tain him. And I am so sorry for him,’ she said, tears 
filling her brown eyes. 

It was no use to talk about it. It would only make 
her feel all the more sorry. 

^‘Well, one day there was a little party, pic-nic, or 
something of the kind, in the grove not far off — Harry 
Seymour with them, of course, and Carl, too. Nell was 
sitting with him when the cry arose — ‘Harry is shot! 
Harry is dying ! ’ I don’t just remember how it was ; but 
some accident from his own gun. 

“ Nell started from Carl’s side to fly across the green, 
and drop down beside the wounded man. He was per- 
fectly sensible, although very badly hurt. A faint smile 
of satisfaction passed over his face when Nell, tenderly 
lifting his head to her lap, gave her orders for his comfort. 
She had then cut off the covering from the torn and bleed- 
ing arm. With her own hands she washed the wound, 
and continued to bathe it with cool water until the doctor 
came, all the time soothing him with cheering words. 


WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 


95 


When for a moment no one was near but me, she bent her 
head, and with her eyes full of tears, said : 

‘ Oh, that I could help you bear this suffering.’ Lilly 
—where was she ? Fled, with the first sight of blood. He 
saw her; but he knew she was not like Nell, and he 
minded not, for Nell was with him. 

“Well, the doctor came, found the ball, dressed the 
wound, and pronounced it not dangerous with proper 
care. 

“ We had him with us for nearly a month ; and then it 
was that Lilly saw Harry Seymour loved only Nell. But 
Lilly did not suffer. Her heart had not been deeply en- 
gaged. She had received Harry’s attentions because he 
was persistent, and would probably in time have been won 
by them, if he had continued. 

“ Carl Thurston had grown so pale and thin during the 
time that Harry was with us, that we knew he was worry- 
ing himself almost to death about Nell, fearing to lose 
her. As Harry grew strong and well again, Nell resumed 
her old ways with Carl. 

“ They had been out to walk one afternoon, and on re- 
turning, I saw the look of perfect happiness on his face. 
I knew then how it was. He had told his love, and she 
had promised to be his. I knew not the quiet, gentle, 
womanly girl that came back that evening. I wanted to 
send her forth and have my own wilful, wayward, wild Nell. 

“ It was the last day of Harry’s stay ; I was going into 
the little parlor that Nell called hers, when I encountered 
Harry. I saw he was anxious to be by himself, and I 
went in to Nell. I found her weeping terribly. I coaxed 
her a little calmer, and then she told me all about it. 

“ ‘ You see,’ she said, ‘ I am engaged to Carl.’ 

“ ‘And well you may cry, then. I wish he was in 
heaven ! ” I said, angrily. 


96 WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 

“ ^ No, no, I am not crying for that, but for Harry. You 
see, he thinks he loves me — ’ 

“ ‘ Thinks ! You know he does ! Harry loves you truly I ’ 
I exclaimed. 

“ ‘ Yes, yes ; I believed him when he told me so. I never 
dreamed he was going to speak of it, though, when he 
came in here an hour ago. I can’t tell you just what he 
•said, for I was so distressed. But, oh, I know what he 
said when I told him I was not free. 

“ ‘ Oh, Nell, I will not believe it ! I have been thinking 
of you for four weeks as my own. I believed you cared 
for me. Once I despaired of winning you and tried to 
find happiness elsewhere. But that day I was hurt 
brought me more joy than pain. I hoped again! Oh, 
my darling, you will not wreck my life I You care for me 
a little, Nell, do you not ? ’ 

“And what did you say to that, you naughty child, I 
ask? ’ 

“ ‘ Harry, indeed I do care for you, as dearly as if you 
were my own brother,’ I said. ‘And if— if I had not 
known Carl, I might — I could not say it — but he did.’ 

“ ‘ You might have been mine. God pity me 1 This is 
very hard to bear, Nell ; to think I must yield you to him. 
Why — why have you done this ? ’ 

“ ‘ I told him, aunty, as I told papa and mamma last 
night — they know all about it— that because he loves me. 
If I had sent him forth I believe he would die. I will be 
his because my whole heart is filled with sorrow for his 
dreary, dark life. I know I can brighten it. I do not 
believe any one else could, or would, be willing to try. 
He is alone in the world. I taught him to love me; 
Heaven knows I only thought to give him a few pleasant 
hours during those evenings. I never dreamed of this, 
or — or — ’ 


WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 97 

^ You would have fled from it,’ I said. 

“ ‘ No, no, I will not say that,’ she continued. * When 
Harry said I had darkened, aye, wrecked his life, I had 
to scold him a little. I told him he could always win love, 
that the world was filled with beauty for him, while for 
my poor Carl there was little love, and only me. There, 
aunty, that is all. He is gone. I shall see him no more 
— no more ! Oh, what a terrible word ! ’ 

“ She dropped her head in my lap, and I knew she was 
shedding bitter tears. A little while, and she raised the 
pale face and said : 

“ ‘ Don’t look so, aunty. You make me cry. I must get 
bright again before Carl comes. He knows when I’m sad, 
and it hurts him so.’ 

“ Well, Harry went to Europe, and they were married. 
Her parents tried all they could to prevent it, but she was 
firm. He had an income of about a thousand dollars, 
left by his father, and they live on that. To think of my 
darling, that I had such bright hopes for — that I thought 
to see surrounded by the highest of the land — spending 
her life thus ! Well, some folks find their happiness in 
making others happy. I suppose it is so with her. There is 
one comfort for us that all do not have, and that is, that all of 
our girls have husbands who quite idolize their wives. Lilly 
married Harry’s brother.” 

“ I told this story years ago to a friend, and now she in- 
sists I must write the sequel. Nell is with us, home 
again. Two years and more have her Carl’s eyes been 
given sight. The beauties lost here, he has increased a 
hundred-fold up there. 

We have just coaxed Nell to lay aside her mourning. 
Last year my bachelor brother passed from earth. He 
gave us all a legacy, but to Nell he gave a hundred thou- 
6 


98 WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM? 

sand dollars. And there was not one of us that did not 
rejoice. 

“ Last week Harry’s brother came in and told us Harry 
was in New York, and he said : 

“ ^ Poor fellow ! he has always been unfortunate, and now 
every dollar he had in the world is gone.’ 

“ I thought he gave a kind of reproachful glance at Nell. 

‘‘An hour after, our little wilful piece was down-stairs in 
her travelling-dress, all ready for a journey. 

“ ‘ AVhere are you going ? ’ we all asked, in one breath. 

“ ‘ To New York,’ she said ; and off she went. 

“Yesterday they came home — I mean Harry and his 
bride, our Nell. 

“Although my heart was dancing with joy, I put bn a 
great show of dignity to say : 

“ ‘ Well, madam, this is a little out of the usual mode, 
I think. Off to hunt a husband ! I should not wonder 
if, anticipating leap-year, you proposed yourself.’ 

“ ‘ I might have, aunty, if Harry had not — ’ 

“ ‘ Caught her just while she was feeling very sorry forme,’ 
Harry interrupted her by saying. 

“ Turning to his brother, he wrung his hand, and said ; 

“ ‘ Thanks, dear old fellow ! That was the biggest lift 
you ever gave me in your life, when you got up that 
imaginary misfortune for me. If Nell had not thought 
me a poor, penniless wretch, I’m doubtful if I should ever 
have won her ! She was awfully disappointed that it was 
not as you told her. And I doubt if she likes me near so 
well.’ 

“ Nell flew across the room to pull her brother-in-law’s 
ears. Again her merry laugh rang out through the open 
windows. The birds caught it, I truly believe, and burst 
forth in a song of welcome to her, our Nell — returned to 
us again— the same wilful, winning, charming Nell, as 
of yore.” 


LOOK UNDER THE BED. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

S OLOMON STEARNS was the clerk in the printing es- 
tablishment of Storms and Sefton. The week previous 
to the time of our story, Solomon’s mind had been very 
much disturbed, in fact his equanimity quite destroyed, by 
the gay, fashionable and thoughtless wife of Mr. Storms 
coming into the counting-room and saying : 

“ Tell Mr. Storms I have taken a little pin-money.” 

She swept clear the cash drawer of all the money Steams 
had collected to pay off the hands next day, and went away 
smiling, never knowing or caring how much trouble she 
gave to the worthy proprietor, or any of his employes. 
The good-natured husband made no other remark upon 
this not unfrequent occurrence, than : 

“ Well, Stearns, we must do better next week. We shall 
have larger receipts, and will make it all right with the 
boys. Tell them so.” 

Solomon said, “Yes, sir,” to his employer; but to him- 
self, a few moments after, “I don’t believe in letting a 
woman have her way all the time.” 

The next week Solomon vowed to be “up to her.” 
Friday morning he had a sufficient sum to pay the men 
for two weeks’ work. Saturday afternoon was the usual 
time for doing this. So Solomon would not trust the 
money anywhere but in his own keeping. 


100 


LOOK UN DEB THE BED. 


He returned home that evening feeling very much re- 
lieved by the thought of having fixed all right for the boys 
next day. With much pleasure he communicated this to 
his wife. 

“ Dear me ! Solomon, if I had been you, I wouldn’t have 
trusted myself with so much money. Supposing you’d 
been knocked down and robbed, what then?” said Mrs. 
Stearns. 

“Just like you, wife; always supposing something any- 
thing but pleasant. Suppose, please, I had not secured 
the money for the poor boys, what then? ” said Solomon. 

“ Why, they would have had to wait until you had. But if 
you had lost the money, then it would be a very difierent 
thing. You would have to make the money good. Dear, 
dear ! it makes me shake to think of your coming along 
the street at night with so much in your pocket. Have 
you looked to see if you have it now? ” asked Mrs. Stearns. 

“Oh, pshaw, Nancy! I declare you are the queerest 
woman I ever did know. Now there is the money safe I ” 
exclaimed Solomon, drawing the well-filled wallet from 
his pocket, and slamming it down on the table beside her. 

“Oh, mercy! Look there, Solomon,” screamed Mrs. 
Nancy, pointing with a terrified look toward the window. 

“ Look at what? ” exclaimed Solomon. 

“ I saw a man’s face at the window,” she whispered. 

“ Nancy Stearns, if you were any other woman but my 
wife, I’d say, What a fool! — screeching and screaming 
because a man might have glanced in while passing on the 
street,” Solomon said, in an irritated tone. 

“ Solomon Stearns, as you are my husband, I would like 
to say. What a wise man ! But I am sorry I can’t, particu- 
larly as you ought to be, considering your name. It’s 
against my principles to lie. A wise man would not have 
displayed his pocket-book, with the window blinds open. 


LOOK UNDER THE BED. 


101 


But, oh, mercy, Solomon, we ought not to quarrel, when 
who knows but we may be murdered before to-morrow 
morning ! I wished you had not fetched that money home 
with you,” groaned Mrs. Nancy. 

Do hush, wife, and be sensible, and we will both stop 
complimenting each other. Now give me my supper,” 
said Solomon. 

His wife went out and hurried in the supper. She tried 
to banish from her mind thoughts of danger, but it was not 
an easy matter. She was not naturally nervous or timid. 
She had been reading that day of some noted burglars 
being in town, and a word of warning to housekeepers. 
Again, a neighbor had been in to tell of a friend near by 
whose whole family had been chloroformed, and the house 
cleared of ever3dhing valuable. So this was the secret of 
Mrs. Stearns’ disquietude. 

The subject so annoying was, however, dropped during 
the supper, and indeed until some time after, when, as he 
vras always accustomed, Solomon took down the chess- 
board, and said, “ Come, Nancy.” 

Nancy came and began to play. 

Frequently, “ Why, Nancy, what are you about? ” Solo- 
mon asked, until at length he exclaimed,- “ What on earth 
are you about, Nancy? What are you thinking of? ” 

“ Solomon, did yon look behind you when you came in 
the door to-night ? Dear, dear, a man might have come in 
when you did.” 

“ Nancy Stearns, a man did come in when I came, and 
not a child, for you to be talking so to. Now, stop it, 
once and for all. Don’t you know thoughts are in the air? 
Some fellow will catch yours, and think of robbing us. 
The way you go on, one would think I had the great ‘ Koh- 
i-noor,’ ” getting really angry then. 

“ I don’t know what or how much that is. I only know 


102 


LOOK UNDER THE BED. 


that Mrs. Pimpton told me that there’s lots of robbers 
around,” Mrs. Stearns said, looking as if she saw one then. 

“ Oh, go to bed, Nancy. You are nervous.” 

“Indeed I won’t, until you do. I am not going up- 
stairs by myself to be murdered, all alone !” snapped Mrs. 
Stearns. 

Solomon smiled dryly as he answered : 

“ Oh, well ; I suppose it won’t hurt so much if I suffer 
with you. Well, I’ll go, as I have to be up very early to- 
morrow.” 

Nancy peeped behind every large chair and sofa through 
the rooms below, and when into her own, she turned 
on the gas in full blast, opened the closet doors and felt 
about there, pulled away the fire-board, and was peeping 
up the chimney, when Solomon said, sternly : 

“ Now stop ! I don’t believe in letting a woman have 
her way. I’ve said so before to-day, and now I am 
determined to stand to it. Besides, you’ll have every 
mosquito a mile round coming in here. There ! ” turning 
off the gas and adding, “ Now I know you’ll be glad to get 
into bed. You’ll be afraid to be stumbling about in the 
dark.” 

“ Oh, dear ! If you had only waited until I’d looked 
under the bed, I’d felt easy. Please let me light up another 
minute, Solomon ! ” pleaded Mrs. Nancy. 

“ No, not for a second ! Nancy, if you had your usual 
good sense, you would know a man could not be under 
this bed without he crawled there and remained flat on 
his stomach all the time.” 

“ That’s just the reason he would get there, thinking we 
would never look for him in such a place. I’ve always 
looked under the bed ever since I had one,” Nancy said, 
crying. 

“ Yes ; looking for robbers. People generally And, some 


LOOK UNDER THE BED. 103 

time or other, what they are all the time hunting for. I 
believe you would rather find one than not ! ” 

“ Indeed I would, if there was one to find, and feel de- 
cidedly more comfortable than letting him, when he finds 
us asleep, find all the money and silver we have got. May 
I look under the bed, Solomon?” 

“ No. I’ll have my way this time, and not yours, Mrs. 
Stearns. Now go to sleep.” 

“ Indeed I can’t,” answered Nancy. 

But she was very tired, and it was not long before her 
husband knew her fears were surely quieted. Then Solo- 
mon chuckled to himself, saying : 

“I’ve seen enough of the folly of letting a woman have 
her way lately, and I’m going to turn over a new leaf.” 

And so, rejoicing in the consciousness of having done a 
good thing, Solomon Stearns sank to peaceful slumbers. 

Now neither Mr. Stearns nor Nancy were sound sleepers, 
but somehow that night they did sleep long and sound, 
and not until the door bell had been pulled violently three 
or four times, accompanied by loud rapping, did Mrs. 
Nancy open her eyes. Then, instead of quickly starting 
up, she rubbed her eyes, yawned, stretched herself, and 
rubbed her eyes again. Another ring, with its accompani- 
ment, brought her to a sitting posture, and she called : 

“ Solomon ! Dear me, how we have overslept ourselves ! 
There is the milk boy. Solomon, I say ! ” 

It took considerable shaking to bring up Solomon, and 
then he muttered something about making him get up 
when he had not gotten half sleep enough. 

“ But don’t you hear the milk boy ? We have overslept 
ourselves dreadfully.” 

“ I guess not, Nancy. Let’s see.” 

The old-fashioned clock which stood on the chimney 
piece was consulted, and Solomon said; 


104 


LOOK UNDER THE BED. 


“ Now I did think I wound her up. But I must have 
forgotten it. She stopped at five minutes of twelve.” 

Down into his pants pocket he thrust his hand to draw 
forth his bunch of keys. With a look of mingled doubt 
and fright, he turned to his wife. She was gazing wildly 
at the clock. 

“Ah, now, Nancy, you’ve been playing a trick on me!” 
Solomon said. 

“ What do you mean ? But see there I ” pointing to the 
clock, and looking wildly from that to her husband’s 
face. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ The clock ain’t stopped. It’s going,” gasped Nancy, 
darting to the window and throwing open the blinds. 

The sun shone in, strong and bright, casting a straight 
shadow across the floor. 

Solomon was looking then terrified and wild enough. 
Nancy repeated ; 

“ It’s going, I say.” 

“ It’s gone^ I tell you ! ” 

“ Gone ! What’s gone ? ” 

“ The money ! ” 

“ Oh 1 good mercy I I told you we’d be murdered and 
robbed I ” Nancy exclaimed. 

“Haven’t you been trying me, Nancy? Oh, yes, you 
have. See there ; you have been up before. The door is 
ajar. I fastened it the last thing.” 

“ Solomon Steams, we have been murdered and robbed ! 
—I mean chloroformed. Pugh ! don’t you smell the pisen 
stuff? Oh, Lord I I knew it I I felt it 1 ” groaned Nancy. 

There was no longer a doubt of the truth. Both the 
smell of chloroform and its effect were too manifest. 

“ How could any one have gotten in ? And where could 
he have hid ? You looked everywhere.” 


LOOK UNDER THE BED. 


105 


“ No, I didn’t. I can’t tell how any one got in. But I 
know just where they hid; where you wouldn’t let me 
look — under the bed,” answered Nancy. 

And down on her hands and knees she went then, to 
look under the bed. An instant after, and she cried out, 
in a voice which sounded rather triumphant to Solomon : 

“ J ust as I said. See here ! ” and she held up a pair of 
false whiskers. 

“ Look and see who is at the door ringing the bell so,” 
said Solomon. 

Nancy, looking out of the window, replied : 

“ It is the boy from the office.” 

“ Throw him the keys, and say I’m not well, but will be 
over in an hour or so,” Solomon said. 

When they went down-stairs, they found all the back 
part of the house open. The boy had left the milk hours 
before. Nancy hurried up a cup of coffee, after which her 
husband hastened to the office, stopping by the bank, and 
drawing from his little savings enough to replace the lost 
money. 

It was a severe blow to him, but from which his ■worthy 
wife could and did draw a little mite of consolation. From 
that time to this, she has been allowed to look up the 
chimneys, into closets, and even under the bed, to her 
heart’s content; her husband having come to the conclu- 
sion, that it is just as well to let a woman have her way. 


AT A FEARFUL COST. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

i ^ “T DECLARE it is too mortifying! ” exclaimed a brilliant 

JL brunette, throwing aside the morning paper with 
an impatient gesture. 

“ What is, Jennie? ” asked the gentle-looking girl beside 
her. 

“ Why just to think every lady^ with any pretensions to 
respectability, has given a party this season but us! I 
declare, I am truly ashamed to accept any invitations, as 
we have not returned the politeness, nor have any prospect 
of doing so. I don’t know what papa is thinking about. 
Whenever I Ve spoken about it, he has given me not a bit 
of encouragement. And I ’m just going to take the matter 
into my own hands. I will ask him just once more, and if 
he does not agree, I will have a party if — no matter whai it 
costs , Jennie replied, with a determined look on her hand- 
some face. 

“ Jennie, don’t talk so! Have you not noticed that the 
lines of care on father’s face have deepened much lately? 
I know all is not well with him. He is troubled, I see 
plainly, and is striving not to cast the shadow of it over his 
family. If he could have given you a party, you know he 
would have done so long ago. When did he ever refuse us 
any pleasure he cauld bestow ? He has been too indulgent, 
I fear, and we too extravagant. I heard Mr. Barnard say, 
( 106 ) 


AT A FEARFUL COST. 


107 


last evening, that many of the oldest firms in our city were 
tottering, and the proprietors would have to be very skilful 
to weather the financial storm. I fear papa may be among 
those anxious ones. Don’t worry him, Jennie, dear,” 
pleaded the younger sister, her fair, sweet face growing 
sadder, as Jennie quickly answered : 

“Oh, nonsense! It is nothing of the kind. Papa is 
growing penurious, and wants to economize. Saving money 
is what he is up to.” 

“ I think he is up to more than that, Jennie. Saving his 
name and honor — ” 

“ There, stop, Gertie ! I don’t want to listen to a sermon 
on that subject. I’ve known papa to get these spells 
before. I am determined. Mamma will not object, I know. 
So a party I ’ll have. But here is mamma now.” 

Mrs. Halstead, entering, inquired concerning the subject 
under discussion. Jennie repeated what she had said to 
her sister, concluding with : 

“Now, mamma, don’t you think we might manage to 
give one? I’ve a particular reason for wishing it just 
now.” 

“I hardly think we can, Jennie. I’ve noticed your 
father’s depressed look. He is worried about something, 
and I would not like to ask him now.” 

“ Mamma, might we not manage it without asking him? ” 
Jennie asked, with such a sweet, pleading expression in 
her dark eyes, as she leaned her head caressingly on her 
mother’s shoulder, and whispered : 

“ I should like so much to have Captain Lovell see me 
do ,the honors. He was admiring Ada Lawton’s dignity 
and grace the other evening, when she presided at her 
party.” 

She blushed a little, and looked so lovely, her mother 
felt disposed to help her favorite child, yet scarcely knew 
how it could he done. 


108 


AT A FEARFUL COST. 


Jennie saw she was yielding, and said : 

“ Mamma, I have fifty dollars. If you had as much, we 
could pay Gilbert that on the supper in advance, and he 
would gladly wait for the balance three or six months.” 

I have a hundred, that your father gave me this morn- 
ing to pay several little bills. Perhaps they might be put 
off — ^that is, a part of them, those not so pressing. But you 
forget the music.” 

“ O dear, yes ! Twenty-five more, that must be paid at 
the time. Couldn’t you spare that, mamma ? ” 

I must pay twelve to Bridget I owe her for last month, 
and here this is nearly gone. I must hold her, which I 
cannot do if I do not pay her. Then your father told me 
to be sure to give fifteen to John.” 

“Oh, mamma, divide the twenty-five between Bridget 
and John, and let us have the party. Papa need not know 
anything about it until it is on him, and he won’t worry 
over what he cannot help. You’ll never regret it, you 
darling mamma! And we won’t mind what it costs,” 
Jennie said, then in a happy mood, having succeeded in 
winning her mother to her will, she knew. 

George Halstead sat in his counting-rooin, a weight of 
care plainly visible on his sad face. He was evidently 
waiting for the coming of some one. At length the door 
opened, and he arose to meet the visitor, saying : 

“ Thank you for coming, Walton. Courtesy would de- 
mand my seeking you ; but you understand me. I thought 
you would. Here you can say things to me perhaps you 
would hesitate to in your own house. Six months ago 
you lifted the burden from my mind and heart. I told 
you with your relief I could stem the tide. To-day I am 
a ruined man. Difficulties have increased on every side. 
I can neither meet my liabilities to you or others, although 
Heaven knows how hard I have striven. In ten days at 
furthest the crash must come.” 


AT A FEARFUL COST. 


109 


“ Halstead, I have seen it’s coming. I must be plain 
with you. And you would have more sympathy when 
this is known, had the extravagance of your family been 
less manifest.” 

A half-suppressed groan escaped the miserable man. 
His friend went on : 

“ It would be more cruel to withhold this than say it to 
you. You are keeping up an establishment of magnifi- 
cence scarcely justifiable in a man of millions. Your 
wife and daughters are the most elegantly and expensively 
dressed women in town. Your boys — ” 

“ Stop, stop ! in mercy, stop ! To one you are unjust. 
Gertrude — ” 

“Yes, I should have excepted her. I know she is a 
noble girl. Have you talked with her ? ” 

“ No, no ; I could not bear to grieve her loving heart 
any sooner than necessary. Walton, I would willingly die 
to save them from this trouble. In truth now, at times, I 
fear I shall go mad. I have not sent for you to ask for 
any delay ; it would not help me ; only to make an assign- 
ment of all my effects to you, as a preferred creditor. 
What may be left you will do the best you can with.” 

“ Stop a moment, Halstead. What amount would save 
you ? ” 

“ Not less than twenty thousand dollars.” 

Mr. Walton remained in deep thought several moments. 
Then raising his eyes to his friend’s, he said : 

“ Halstead, that sum I will place at your command this 
day week, if you will promise me to make a radical reform 
in your household. Make your sons dependent on their 
own exertions. See that they obtain no credit. And 
make your wife and daughters understand the trouble you 
are in. Do this within the week, and you are saved. Take 
my counsel, and in less than five years you will be a free 
man.” 


110 


AT A FEARFUL COST. 


God bless you, Walton ! my more than friend ! I will 
do it. You who will save me shall counsel and guide.” 

“Very well; I shall be a stern master. You will find 
me ready, when you are. Cheer up now. Good-by. I’ve 
an engagement at six.” 

Mrs. Halstead and Jennie had fully decided upon the 
party at any rate, and when her father returned home 
that evening, his face wearing a more hopeful expression, 
Jennie whispered: 

“ I told you nothing was wrong with papa. See how 
pleasant he looks ! ” 

“ Mother, wait a while. Don’ give up to Jennie’s whims. 
You know, if father was not in some trouble, he would not 
have refused Jennie, when she asked him to let her have 
the party,” said Gertie. 

But her pleading was useless. Preparations went on for 
a grand party. Jennie triumphantly said, “ Fortune has 
favored us,^ when her father told them he should have to 

go to B on business, to be absent three or four days, 

possibly longer. 

“ Let me find you all home when I return, at furthest, 
Thursday evening. I want to have a council of peace, I 
hope,” he said, smiling pleasantly, when he bade them 
good-by. 

“We will all be home,” Mrs. Halstead and Jennie re- 
plied, while Gertie stole out after her father, and winding 
her arms around his neck, said : 

“ You have been looking so worried lately, father I Are 
you feeling better now ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, little one. It was a passing cloud. Things 
look brighter now. I will tell you all when I return, and 
shall want your help, my best child. Now run in.” 

Invitations were issued for Thursday night. That night 
George Halstead had fixed to disclose to his family his 


AT A FEARFUL COST. Ill 

exact circumstances. Two days after, Mr. Walton would 
fulfil his promise, and then all would be well. 

Never did Jennie Halstead look more beautiful than 
when she stood, smiling, and conscious of the admiring 
gaze from eyes in whose sight she cared alone to triumph. 

The magnificent rooms were filled to their utmost capa- 
city. It was decidedly the party of the season. 

The band was playing one of Strauss’ beautiful waltzes 
when Jennie, supported by the arm of Captain Lovell 
through the dance, raised her eyes to the door. There 
standing — the pallor of whose face frightened her then, and 
haunted her ever after — was her father. 

Gertie, who, resisting the combined efforts of all, refused 
to join the merry throng, was watching for his coming. 

She drew him with her far away into an upper room, off 
from the company, and there, through the night, strove to 
calm the fevered state into which the shock had thrown 
him. 

The next morning, when Gertie, seeing him somewhat 
relieved, threw herself down for a few moments’ rest, a 
servant, never dreaming of the mischief he was doing, 
bore to Mr. Halstead the note which Gertie found after, 
and which somewhat explained the sad sequel of our 
story. This it was : 

Friend Halstead — Last evening’s event proves clearly 
you have not the firmness, possibly not the disposition, to 
do your duty. Why should I try to save you ? You need 
depend no further on my assistance. Yours, 

“A. Walton.” 

That night, evading the loving girl, George Halstead 
stole from his home, never to return. 

Days passed, yet he came not. At last the river cleared 
the terrible mystery. On its bank were cast the remains 


112 


AT A FEARFUL COST. 


of the miserable man — ^the sad result of woman’s vanity, 
extravagance and carelessness. 

The verdict, “Accidental death by drowning, when in a 
fit of temporary insanity,” was given by the jury, and ac- 
cepted by the people. But I think another verdict might 
be found, which would more clearly explain this case, and 
many others : “ Driven to death by woman’s folly.” Men 
sometimes are more considerate than wise. 

It was a terrible blow to the gentle, loving Gertie. Not 
a thought she spent on the loss of all worldly possessions — 
all, and only, for the dear father she grieved. But her sor- 
row was freed from the bitter pangs of conscience. 


MINNIE GREY. 


BY FRANCES HEN SHAW BADEN. 


’T'YT'ITH an impatient little movementj Minnie Grey 

V V turned from the glass, saying : ^ 

“ What’s the use ? No matter what I put on, I look just 
the same ugly, sallow little body. Oh, Grace ! why could 
I not have been given some little beauty? I would 
willingly give half the days allotted to my life to be 
beautiful.” 

The fair, sweet face of her companion was raised from 
the book she had been reading to Minnie’s. 

“ Of what profit is beauty, dear ? Friends call me so ; 
and I, Minnie — I would gladly change looks for your 
health and strength. Why do you crave beauty?” Grace 
asked, with a sad look on her lovely face. 

“Why? — why? — you ask. That I might be loved. 
Just think ! Here I am over twenty-one, and never have 
had a lover ; and I’m sure I never shall. Who is going to 
love me, when there are so many beautiful girls every- 
where ? ” 

“ Every one that knows you — ” 

“ But you see, Grace, dear, no young man will care to 
know me. You see how they all seek out pretty girls.” 

“ No ; you are mistaken, Minnie. You do not think, or 
you would not talk so. Think of me, dear, and thank 
God you are as you are. I may find love ; but who would 
wish to unite his life with one so feeble as mine? Never 
7 ( 113 ) 


114 


MINNIE GREY. 


fear; some one will find out what a dear, sweet little 
girl you are. And you will be beautiful to him whose 
wife you shall be,” Grace said, with a sweet, assuring 
smile. 

“ No, no ; the one whose wife I shall have to be, I sup- 
pose, does not care if I am not pretty. He only cares to 
have somebody that can rub and fan, and read the morn- 
ing papers — yes, and cook. It will not be the old man’s 
darling with me, I know ; just the reverse — the old man’s 
slave,” Minnie said, bursting into tears, and, pulling off her 
hat, she threw it down, sobbing : 

“I’m not going out. I look just as I feel, perfectly 
miserable.” 

“ Why, Minnie, darling, what do you mean ? Is it pos- 
sible there is any truth in the rumor I’ve heard about old 
Mr. Plimpton?” Grace asked, gently drawing Minnie 
down beside her. 

“Yes, too much truth for my happiness. Oh, dear, I 
would run away to-morrow if I’d only somebody to run 
with,” sobbed the poor child. “ I don’t want to marry Mr. 
Plimpton. But what can I do ? Aunt insists I shall ; and 
— well, I do not see that a home with old Mr. Plimpton 
could be any worse than the one I have now.” 

“ Poor, dear little orphan Minnie ! would that I had a 
home to offer you!” Grace said; and while Minnie was 
sobbing on her shoulder, the sweet girl was thinking of 
some plan for her friend’s relief. 

“I have it, dear,” she said. “ You shall not marry for a 
home ; you shall go to work for one.” 

“What can I do? Nothing sufficiently well,” Minnie 
began saying. 

“ Yes, you can teach little children. Here, let me have 
writing material; I will, with your permission, put an 
advertisement in the paper immediately. May I ? ” 


MINNIE GKEY. 


115 


“ YeSj with many thanks, dear Grace, for your kindness. 
Do with me as you choose. Any change from this will be 
acceptable. Oh, Grace, how I have suffered in this home 
by charity given ! I have tried to earn all I get, but aunt 
does not think I do. Only this morning she was insisting 
on my giving a favorable answer to my venerable suitor, 
and said she was tired of supporting me ; that now I have 
not only a chance of doing well for myself, but for my 
friends, to whom I was so much indebted. As long as 
uncle lived I was treated with some show of kindness ; and 
he was always loving.” 

“ Well, dear, I trust you will be happier soon. Now, I 
shall attend to this myself, and have any answers that may 
come delivered to me. AVe shall not want your relative 
here to know anything about it until you are ready to leave. 
And now, I’m going. Keep up a brave heart, and try to 
get a less woe-begone look. Mothers want cheerful faces 
about their little ones,” Grace said, kissing her friend 
good-by, and receiving her promise to do as she bade 
her. 

Three days after Minnie received a little note from Grace, 
saying: 

“Come — I’ve good news. Prepare yourself to make 
some calls.” 

Minnie knew she must look the best she could, and 
when an hour after she presented herself to Grace, the 
sweet girl said : 

“ Why, how well you look, almost as happy as I shall ex- 
pect to see you after you get to work. Now see, here are 
four answers to our advertisement. These two I like. This 
one of Mrs. Laurence particularly. You must go to her 
first. I know something of her; she is kind and good, I 
think, and the mother of two little girls and one boy. 
Should you not suit her, then we will try the next.” 


116 


MINNIE GEEY. 


Grace kissed, and hurried her off, saying, as the door 
closed after her : 

“ If I had let the dear child get a chance to think or 
say a word, she would have gotten so nervous and 
timid I should have had some trouble in getting her to 
go alone.” 

With a trembling heart Minnie rang the hall-bell of Mrs. 

Laurence’s home — an elegant brown-stone house on 

avenue. Her agitation was in no way relieved when a 
pompous man-servant stood before her. She managed to 
inquire if Mrs. Laurence was in and hand the card Grace 
had given her. 

An instant after, her fright was chased away by a lovely 
little girl of five years, who came dancing up to her, say- 
ing: 

“ I know you. You are going to teach me to sing and 
read and sew. Come see mamma,” and catching Minnie’s 
hand, the little one drew her along to the door of the 
parlor. 

A sweet, smiling little woman came forward with ex- 
tended hand, saying : 

‘‘ You see. Miss Grey, this little girl has taken possession 
of you. I trust we shall like each other. I do want some 
one to help me with the children so much ! ” 

Minnie was so relieved, so delighted by the pleasant, cor- 
dial greeting, that, in her own quick, impulsive manner, 
she answered : 

“ Oh, if you will let me come, I will be so glad ! See 
my letters ! Here they are. Please read them, and then 
you will know more about me and if I will suit you.” 

Quickly the little lady read the first from the kind doc- 
tor, and only glancing at the signatures of the others, she 
answered, smiling : 

“ This one would have been sufficient. I know the good 


MINNIE GREY. 


117 


doctor, and am very glad to secure the services of one rec- 
ommended by him. I will read the others by-and-by, 
and show them to my husband. Now, Miss Grey, we will 
to business. I like you, and want you to come just as soon 
as possible, to-night, if you please. And about the remu- 
neration ? ” 

“ I have no idea about it,” Minnie said. “ Let me come, 
and you can see about that afterward. I only want a 
home, with a kind word sometimes.” 

Minnie’s lips quivered, and her voice broke completely 
then. 

Half an hour after she had given Mrs. Laurence all her 
story, and the kind little lady bade her good-by, with 
assurances of a happy home in future. 

Grace was anxiously waiting Minnie’s return. The 
happy girl’s face was an answer to the question she was 
about to ask. 

“Ah! I see, you have been successful. Now look in 
that mirror and tell me if my little friend is not grown 
almost pretty,” Grace said. 

Minnie glanced as directed, and with a blush answered : 

“ I ’ve been with such a sweet, beautiful lady, it would 
not be very wonderful if, while breathing the same atmos- 
phere, I may have lost some of my ugliness.” 

By Grace’s advice Minnie collected her scanty wardrobe, 
packed, and had it in the hands of a porter before she went 
down and explained to her aunt that she had found another 
home. 

Completely surprised, not only by the news, but by 
Minnie’s calm, decided manner, for a few moments 
her aunt could offer no resistance, and when she 
recovered herself and began to pour forth a torrent 
of reproaches and threats, Minnie was beyond their 
reach. 


118 


MINNIE GREY. 


Very happy Minnie grew to be in her new home. The 
children’s hearts were soon won, and Mrs. Laurence grew 
daily more attached to her. 

“ What should I do without her ? ” Mrs. Laurence said, 
speaking to her husband of Minnie. “She is so patient 
with the children. Emma and Rosie love her dearly, and 
she can do more with Willie than any one but you.” 

“ Willie is very trying sometimes, Lottie, and I fear very 
much will exhaust Miss Grey’s patience. Unseen by her, 
I watched him yesterday. And indeed, I fear, if we do 
not manage to curb his temper, we may lose this prize, as 
you seem to consider Miss Grey. Indeed, I should think 
she might prefer a life with old Mr. Plimpton to the charge 
of that little tyrant,” Mr. Laurence returned. 

The children were in great glee — even Willie became 
very docile, while visions of expectant presents “ danced 
o’er his head ” — Upcle Armand was coming home. 

Little Emma, in her confiding way, told Minnie that her 
uncle was the best uncle in the world. 

“ We all love him so dearly, and you will love him too, 
Miss Minnie ; you can’t help it,” she said. 

“ And I ’m going to tell him he must lub Minnie,” baby 
Rosie chimed in, with her arms encircling Minnie’s neck. 

Uncle Armand’s arrival caused the books to be laid aside. 
A holiday was proclaimed. Uncle Armand had begged for 
it, and no one ever thought of denying any request of his. 
Armand Leslie was Mrs. Laurence’s only brother — a grave, 
earnest-looking man, several years older than his sister, to 
whom he was very much devoted. 

“He is a confirmed bachelor, Minnie,” Mrs. Laurence 
said; “but he is not queer and cranky. Years ago I 
thought I should have to resign him to a very beautiful 
girl. They were engaged, and he was happier than I ever 
knew him.” 


MINNIE GREY. 


119 


“ Did she die ? ” Minnie asked, quickly, her eyes filling 
with tears. 

“ Die ! No, indeed. She ran off with a man old enough 
to be her father — almost her grandfather. She threw away 
love for gold. Armand has had no faith in woman since.” 

“Oh, how could she — how could she have deserted him? 
What is gold compared to love ? I ’d die for one who 
loved me ! ” Minnie exclaimed, clasping her little hands 
and raising her eyes to meet those of — Armand Leslie ! 

He stood on the portico, looking at her through the open 
window. How much of their conversation he had heard 
she knew not, but was sure her last remark had reached 
his ears. 

Drooping eyelids and crimson cheeks told how much the 
artless girl was embarrassed and mortified to know that 
the cry of her eager, hungry heart had reached a stranger’s 
ear. 

When Minnie found a chance, she stole away to her own 
room, resolving to keep as much as possible out of Mr. 
Leslie’s sight. 

“ What must he think of me, I wonder ? ” she said. 

What he thought he was, just at that moment, saying to 
his sister. 

“ What a devoted little love she would be I ” 

“ Yes, indeed. But I ’m just selfish enough to hope no 
one will find out what a dear, sweet, patient little girl she 
is, so that we may keep her. Wouldn’t she make just the 
nicest little old maid imaginable ? ” Mrs. Laurence said. 

“No, I think she would make the dearest little wife 
imaginable ! ” Armand answered, with a look in his fine 
eyes that his sister did not understand. 

Although Minnie made up her mind to keep out of Mr. 
Leslie’s way, that gentleman seemed determined she should 
not. Almost every day he would present himself in the 


120 


MINNIE GREY. 


school-room; sometimes with the plea of helping Willie 
through his task; again, because Rosie would not come 
without him ; once, to beg them all off for a frolic in the 
woods, in which Minnie was forced to join. And so it w^as 
until, with no longer an excuse, he came to read an hour 
or write a letter, or, oftener, to sit and “ watch the children,” 
he said. 

Those were pleasant days for Minnie. Happiness was 
in her heart, beaming forth from her soft brown eyes, and 
making the little plain face grow really pretty. Grace saw 
the change in her friend, listened to the low, love-tuned 
voice as she talked of the kindness of all in her new home, 
and of Mr. Leslie particularly. Grace’s gentle heart grew 
anxious, as she thought : 

“ Will this stranger care to win the heart he has taught 
to love ? ” 

One day Uncle Armand had started on some pleasure 
excursion. Willie was very cross at not being permitted 
to accompany him. Mrs. Laurence resigned the little 
tyrant to Minnie’s charge, believing that, as hitherto, he 
would soon yield to her gentle firmness. But Willie’s 
good-humor could not be restored. In fact, he grew worse 
and worse. Minnie, knowing the boy’s love for his uncle, 
said : 

“ Willie, what will your uncle say, when he hears how 
naughty you have been ? If you will be good now, no one 
shall tell him. Do you think he can love you if you go on 
this way ? ” 

I don’t care if he don’t love me. He don’t love you 
either. He sha’n’t love you. You are ugly. I heard him 
tell mamma no one could say you were pretty. If he can’t 
love naughty boys he can’t love ugly girls. Now, miss ! 
And I ’m going to send you away, ’cause if you had asked 
uncle I could have gone. You sha’n’t stay now ! ” 


MINNIE GREY. 


121 


The boy looked up to see the effect of his words. The 
sullen expression on his face passed away quickly, as Min- 
nie’s hand slid from his shoulder, and with lips pale and 
quivering, she said : 

“ Yes, yes, I will go ! — I must go ! ” 

And turning from him, she sank in her chair, dropped 
her head on the desk, and sobbed as if her poor little heart 
would surely break. 

“Minnie!” 

She raised her head. Willie was gone. By her side, 
bending over her, looking down into her eyes, stood Armand 
Leslie. 

“ Minnie, are you crying because Willie said those cruel 
words?” he asked, gently. 

“No; I don’t care about what Willie said. He was 
angry, and will be sorry by-and-by. He did not mean it. 
But everybody thinks I ’m so ugly 1 No one will ever love 
me! ” 

Again the little brown head dropped on the desk ; again, 
in a low, tender voice, Armand Leslie said : 

“ Minnie ! ” 

She raised her eyes wonderingly to his. 

“ Minnie, I love you.” 

The words filled her soul with delight ; yet how could 
she believe such joy was for her ? 

“ You — you pity me ! You are sorry for me, you mean ? ” 

“ No, I love you, Minnie, truly. I came back to tell you 
so, and heard Willie’s cruel words.” 

“ But I ’m so plain, so ugly, you know, and — ” 

“You may be plain to others, dear; you were to me 
once. But believe me, little one, I’d sooner have your 
love than the most beautiful woman’s I ever knew. To 
me you are more than beautiful. Look up, dear.” 

Gently he raised her head. 


122 


MINNIE GKEY. 


‘‘ Can you love me, Minnie ? ” 

With all the love of her ardent, loving nature beaming 
from her eyes, she looked into his, and answered : 

“ More than all the world.” 

Ah, little Minnie, love is a great heautifier ; and that 
yearning, hungry heart of yours is fully satisfied now,” 
said Grace, embracing the happy girl. 

^‘Oh, yes! And I’m so truly thankful to you, dear 
Grace, that instead of marrying old Mr. Plimpton for 
a home, I went to work to earn one. And what a happy^ 
happy one it will be ! ” Minnie answered, with tears of joy 
in her bright eyes. 


WAS IT A DREAM? 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

A lthough more than twenty years have passed 
- since we gathered round our mother’s friend and 
begged her to tell us a ghost story, I can remember every 
word as distinctly as though only a few days or hours had 
intervened since then. 

We called her Aunt Dora, as she taught us. 

In answer to my inquiry, “Has aunty no relatives, 
mamma, no one nearer to her than you?” my mother 
said : 

“ None, dear, that she cares to be with. I will tell you 
why she loves us. At an early age Dora Carlton was left 
an orphan, to the guardianship of her father’s cousin, 
Roger Falkland — ” 

An expression of surprise escaped me, for although the 
Falkland estate was but few miles distant, no intercourse, 
since my remembrance, had existed between that family 
and ours. 

“ Yes, my dear,” continued my mother, “ they are Dora’s 
nearest relations ; but you must never allude to them as 
such. Dora was the only child, and consequently heiress 
to an immense fortune. 

“ The little orphan was content in her new home. They 
were all very kind, and nothing marred her happiness 
until Dora grew to be quite a young lady. Then it was 

(123) 


124 


WAS IT A DREAM? 


she knew her cousin Ealf loved her. Not as her cousin, 
dear, but as a man loves the woman he seeks to win for 
his wife. Dora was grieved when this knowledge came to 
her. She had always been fond of Ealf, but the maiden’s 
heart was no longer her own. A young student at the 
college, and a friend of Ealf ’s, had won it. 

“Eoger Falkland sought by every available means to 
unite his son with his cousin’s heiress. But firmly she 
resisted. At last she astounded her relatives by declaring 
herself betrothed to Willie Grayson — ” 

Another exclamation of greater surprise broke from me, 
and mother continued : 

“ Yes, dear, she was to have been my sister— my bro- 
ther’s wife. Now you know why we are so dear to her. 
Angry and fierce words passed between Ealf and Willie, 
and they were friends no more. Ealf swore he would 
have revenge. Dora was frightened by his threats. But 
Willie laughed at her fears, declaring her love would shield 
him from all harm. Of course he came no more to ‘ Falk- 
land Hall.’ But the lovers met often at a friend’s in the 
village. They parted one evening, with renewed pledges 
of love and constancy. Willie was going home to spend 
the Christmas. A week dragged past, and then came a 
letter of inquiry from his home. Why had he not come 
to them ? All was mystery — dark and unsolvable. Willie 
never came again, either to home or loved one. 

‘‘ Dora, after weeks had passed, and still no tidings came 
to heal the aching heart, gave up all hope, and sank into 
a state of hopeless melancholy. She knew he lived no 
longer on earth, or he would come to her. Her heart 
pointed to her cousin Ealf; yet how could she accuse him? 
What proof had she? Nothing but Ealf’s threat long 
before, and the expression of his dark eye since. He never 
approached her with words of love after ; nay, even seemed 


WAS IT A DREAM? 


125 


to shrink from her. He became restless and uneasy at 
home, and three months after Willie’s disappearance sailed 
for Europe.” 

“And was there never any tidings from my uncle? No 
light upon the mystery ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, we afterward knew that he was murdered; but I 
cannot tell you about it now, love. See, father is coming 
to dinner. Some time soon I will,” mother answered. 

But the remainder of the story came not from her. 

The next day she was summoned to a dear friend who 
was dying, and pleaded to see her. 

During mamma’s absence, one night sisters and I sat in 
the moonlight, talking of supernatural things. Aunt Dora 
was passing through the room. Something we said 
arrested her steps. She drew near, and I, jumping up, 
passed my arm around her, and drawing her down between 
us, asked ; 

“ Do you believe in ghosts. Aunt Dora ? ” 

She did not answer immediately. I was about repeat- 
ing my inquiry, when she said, in a strange, low voice : 

“ I did not at your age. I hardly know whether I do 
now, but I am sure not just as you mean. I have never 
seen anything to make me.” 

“Aunty, but I know you have a story you could tell us, 
if you only would,” I pleaded, Emma and Lottie join- 
ing me. 

“ I will tell you, my dears,” Aunt Dora said. And with 
our hands clasped in hers, she began : 

“Years ago, when scarcely older than you, Fannie, I 
lost one dearer than all the world to me. One night we 
parted full of hope and happy plans for the future. We 
never met again. All was a mystery concerning him. 
Nothing was known, save that he never was seen after 
leaving me. Weeks, months and years passed by, and 
still no tidings came to those who loved him. 


126 


WAS IT A DREAM? 


For hours, at midnight, I would sit in a room where 
he had often slept, waiting, hoping, praying to see him or 
feel him near. There are days sacred to me, and have 
been since he left me — the one of our betrothal, and that 
of his departure. I never think of him as dead — only 
sent from me — waiting my coming in a better land. On 
one of these days I was left alone in the great house. I 
was not sorry. They were to be absent all day, and until 
late in the evening, and urged my either accompanying 
them or securing the presence of some friend. But I 
heeded them not. What 'they dreaded I yearned after, 
longed for, every day and hour. 

“ I visited every spot connected in any way with him. 
When twilight came on, I gathered up every letter, book 
and token, and sought his room, as I called it. I must 
get somehow through the vale of shadows, somewhere near 
him, I felt. I heard the wind whistling through the great 
poplars, and knew a storm was coming. I welcomed it, 
knowing it would prolong the folks’ absence. On and on 
I sat listening to the sighing and moaning of the wind, 
waiting and watching. At length wearied, I dropped my 
head on the table beside me. I felt the air blowing cold 
upon me, and knew the door had opened. I cared not. 
The lock was old and insecure, and had yielded to the 
pressure of the wind, I thought. It was too dark to see. 
I would not strike a light lest I should break the gentle 
influence which seemed stealing over me. A little while 
longer, and as plainly as I feel your hands in my own 
now, I felt Willie’s that night, passing gently over my 
brow, smoothing back my hair, as he had often done 
before. I was not frightened. I felt he was near me, and 
was comforted. His dear voice was sounding in my ear, 
bidding me grieve no more, and telling of the beautiful 
happy land from which he had come to comfort me. And 


WAS IT A DREAM? 


127 


then he told me of a hidden spot in the valley, not far 
away, where I could find what was left of the form he 
used to wear. Then a name I loathed fell on my ear, 
with the words, ^ He is no more of earth. His secret need 
no longer be buried.^ 

“ 1 uttered a cry then, and started forward, upsetting 
the slight table, and causing a loud crash. A few mo- 
ments after I heard footsteps on the stairs, and very soon 
the folks came in with a light, declaring I must have been 
very sound asleep, as they had called me loudly about 
the house. 

“ ‘ How strange you look, Dora ! You must have been 
dreaming,’ said one. 

“Had I been dreaming ? I know not. But when I 
told them one they loved was no more, they called me 
crazed ; and again, when I sent for the friends of my love, 
and went with them to the spot in the valley, and there 
found him for whom we had sought so long, they drew 
away from me, and were well pleased that I returned no 
more to their home, but sought one with Willie’s friends. 
Was I dreaming? I asked myself again, when tidings 
came of the murderer’s death in a foreign land. And 
often have I since. I know not; I only know I was 
comforted.” 

Aunt Dora’s story was ended, and mamma’s finished, 
I knew. 


WON AGAIN. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

^^TTOW could she have married him? That stern, 

Jn cold—” 

I was going to say something more, hut stopped. I 
would not speak disrespectfully of him to his housekeeper, 
although I almost hated him, because of the change, the 
terrible change, I found in the child of my dearest friend. 
In form, features, aye, in mind and heart I met the change. 
Sixteen years had passed since I saw her last, and then at 
fourteen Clarice was the loveliest, brightest, merriest, and 
truly the most bewitching little maid I ever saw. A 
beautiful Southern singing bird, wild and free, although 
now only the shadow of herself. You could see she came 
from those of a sunny clime. Her mother was French, 
her father from the South of our own land. I was upon the 
sea when the little Clarice’s mother went to heaven. And 
when, four years after, I came home, they told me the 
child was fatherless, too, and with her guardians in the 
North. And this man — now her husband — was the one 
her father left her to. 

“ How could she have married Mm again I asked, my 
thoughts going back to a frank and noble youth who loved 
her well, I knew, and of the hope that filled my own heart 
for his success. 

“ Ah ! that’s what many before you have asked,” said 

( 128 ) 


WON AGAIN. 


129 


Margery Moore. “And now I wonder so myself. But 
then he was not quite so bad. No, I don’t mean had, I 
don’t know how I came to say it. For never a cross word 
has he ever said to me, and I’ve lived with him full thirty 
years. I meant to say so — so — still and strange. Then it 
did not seem so wonderful. She could have liked — yes, 
loved him. I’ll tell you just how it was, as near as I can. 
Just thirteen years and a half ago my master, Mr. Hugh, 
called me into his room. He was sitting, with an open 
letter in his hand. 

“ I saw directly something was wrong with him. His 
eyebrows were drawn close together, his ,lips as tight as 
could be. 

“ ‘ Margery,’ he said, ‘ an old friend, one that I loved, 
and one that has placed great confidence in me, is dead. 
His only child, a little girl, he has left to my charge. Do 
you think you can take care of her? Can you attend 
to her wants until she is old enough to be sent to 
school ? ’ 

“‘Indeed I can, sir, and should love to have a child 
about the house,’ I said. Then he looked a little relieved, 
and said : 

“ ‘ Very well. Oh, I dread it. I suppose we shall have 
nothing but whining and crying for the next six months, 
until she gets used to us. Margery, you must go fetch 
her. Take lots of things that children like — a doll, toys, 
and sugar-plums— to stop her crying and win her over. 
And I say, Margery, the day before I expect you home I 
shall go off— only for two or three weeks — travel a little 
until the child gets used to the place. I could not stand 
her fussing around, crying for her mother and father. I 
don’t know, but she may need a nurse. Well, you will 
know. Go as soon as you can, and don’t let us talk any 
more about the child.’ 

8 


130 


WON AGAIN. 


“ The next morning he put a purse, well-filled, in my 
hands. And two days after I started to fetch the child. 

“ Well, you know what a surprise it was to me when I 
found her. I need not tell you that if she had chosen she 
could have remained in a Southern home. Why she could 
not have loved one w'ho seemed so worthy I can’t tell.” 

Ah, Margery, who can tell the why of a woman’s heart ?” 
I answered, my own full of regrets and sorrow. 

“ Yes, yes, you are right,” said Margery. “ I fear she 
has pined for a brighter home than ours. Mr. Hugh was 
absent, as he had said he would be, when I got back again. 

‘‘ How well I remember the look of surprise and disap- 
pointment on the child’s face when I carried her to see the 
portrait of her guardian hanging in the great hall. 

“‘Does he never laugh?’ she asked. 

“ I shook my head. 

‘“Nor smile?’ she continued, her great eyes growing 
larger. 

“ ‘ Karely,’ I answered ; and then, lest she should grow 
frightened with thoughts of so stern a man, I said : ‘ Mr. 
Hugh is a great student. The lives and fortunes of many 
depend on his thought and w'ords. It is not meet that a 
judge should be a merry man.’ 

“ This seemed to satisfy her a bit, and with a knowing 
little look and a graver air, she said : 

“ ‘ That is true. But some time, long ago, when papa 
loved him, and he was only Mr. Hugh, not Judge Archer, 
was he not different, then?’ 

“ ‘Oh, yes, then he was as other young men. But now 
he is five-and- thirty, you know,’ I answered ; and could 
have told of one as young and beautiful as she having won 
his heart, and then cast it aside, to be worse than broken 
— hardened, and filled with doubts, and trusting none ; for 
that it was that made him so. 


i 

I 


WON AGAIN. 


131 


“ ‘ Then if once like other men, he shall be again. I’ll 
coax back his smiles, and make him love me, too. For I 
shall love him because papa bade me to.’ 

“A letter from our ‘ master,’ as Clarice laughingly called 
her guardian, told when he would be home. ‘ If the child 
has not got pacified yet, keep her out of my way, for 
mercy’s sake ! ’ he wrote ; and how merrily she laughed 
about it. 

“ I almost dreaded his coming. Such a change she had 
wrought in the great, dark, gloomy rooms I 

“ She ransacked the store-room and closets, trunks and 
boxes ; found bright covering for the old faded sofas and 
chairs ; brightened up the pictures, and brought out ‘ our 
master’s ’ picture, hung it over the mantel of his room, and 
decked it with evergreens ; brought forth numberless little 
vases of flowers of her own work, and pretty things of 
china and marble, and put them all in his room ; and 
then, to my horror, laid her hands on his books and papers. 
It was no use, all I could say. She would do as she would. 

“ ^Now he will know where to find just what he wants 
without tumbling over everything for one. Oh ! they are 
all right, Margy. I always fixed papa’s. And he was a 
lawyer, too ! ’ she said, when she saw how frightened I 
looked. 

“ Then all the old silver was made to look like new. 
And last of all, she coaxed me into a lot of unnecessary 
trouble, in the way of ‘ nice things for supper that night.’ 

“ She was hid behind the door of the room she had 
made so beautiful, when he entered. And I stood trem- 
bling in a far corner. Round and round he turned. Passed 
his hand across his brow like one only half awake. 

‘ Where am I, Margery ? ’ he called. 

I was trembling so I could not answer. In an instant, 
from behind the door, quickly came Clarice, and went 
right up to ‘ our master’s ’ side, saying : 


132 


WON AGAIN. 


^ Won’t J do ? Margery is out somewhere.’ 

“ I had darted into the passage. But near enough to see 
and hear. 

“ How beautiful she was ! Her dark eyes dancing with 
delight. Her cheeks brighter than any roses I ever saw. 
Her hand was on his arm, and again she spoke to him : 

“‘Let me take your coat and hat.’ And in another 
instant she had pulled off his fur gloves, and began rub- 
bing his hands, and saying : 

“ ‘ Oh, how cold your hands are ! Margy ! Margy ! come 
help to get ‘ our master ’ warm.’ 

“ ‘ Who are you ? ’ he managed to say at length. 

“Then such a merry, ringing laugh sounded through 
the great room, and she said : 

“ ‘ Your child, Clarice Gordon ! A real good child she 
will be, and not cry a bit if you will only love her a little. 
See, I am pacified ! ’ 

“ There was such a merry twinkle in her eye, and re- 
membering his words, he had to smile and asked, in a 
voice more like that of years gone by : 

“ ‘ How old are you, Clarice ? ’ 

“ ‘ Seventeen, almost. Come, say, are you pleased or 
cross ? Margery said you would be just so — ’ she put up 
and crossed her little fingers, again repeating her inquiry. 

“ ‘ I am pleased that you are happy,’ he said. 

“And I knew, then, she had won her way. 

“Yes, he was pleased. He liked being made so much 
of; liked having the beautiful girl flitting about and 
‘ taking care of him,’ as she called her pretty ways. 

“ She threw wide open all the doors and windows, and 
let the sunshine into the house and into the master’s 
heart too. 

“ She coaxed him to take her about in town, and among 
his friends. She had young folks often at the ‘ Grange ; ’ 


WON AGAIN. 


133 


and soon, of course, lovers enough. But she laughed at 
them all, declaring she was going to stay with her guardian 
all the days of her life. Well, whether he really loved her, 
or whether he feared some one might win her away, I 
can’t tell. I only know he came to me and told me Clarice 
was to be his wife, and she, hugging me almost breathless, 
said : 

“ ‘ Dear old Margy, you see now I ’ve made ‘ our master ’ 
love me. Now is he not like he used to be, a little? ’ 

“ They were married and went away. And I had things 
as I knew would please her when they came back. 

“ Things for a while went on well enough. Sometimes 
he would get in his old way ; but she would win him from 
it. But after a bit, these spells came closer together, and 
always when she went from home ; than she seldom left 
him. But folks all about liked her, and would come to see 
her — old and young. After a little — I knew just how it 
wns— he was jealous of everybody, and wanted to cage the 
beautiful bird, to keep her to himself alone. She tried 
hard enough to please him. Only she could not be other 
than charming to all who came ; and all kept on coming. 

“ He grew worse and worse back to his old ways. He 
never chided, only by looks, so cold and stern. When the 
baby came I thought things would grow bright again. Her 
heart was full of hope, I know. She was very ill. Pale 
faces and anxious hearts were in the house that day. But 
she lived. What for ? I’ve often thought. God forgive 
me. I’ve heard her say, with her baby pressed close to 
her bosom : 

“ ‘ Oh, little one, why could not you and I have gone to 
heaven? ’ 

“ For a little after that baby came he was kinder, and 
would sit in the nursery, and seemed quite happy again. 
But when the mother grew well and could go about again 
the old mood grew on him. The baby was her comfort, 


134 


WON AGAIN. 


And so things went on until the little Pearl was three 
years old.” 

Did he love the babe ? ” I asked. 

Oh, yes, he loved her ; that I know. And she was 
wonderfully fond of him. She was such a sweet winning 
child ! And sometimes, with her sweet ways, she would 
draw the two together. Baby though she was, she seemed 
to know something was wrong. The day before she was 
taken ill, he came in with her in his arms. Clarice came 
up, and putting out her hands, said : 

“ ‘ Come to mamma.’ 

“ The babe started up, and was about to spring to her 
mother’s arms when something in his face made her turn 
and look doubtful. 

“‘Stay with me,’ he whispered. ‘Come to mamma,’ 
pleaded she. 

“ From one to the other the sw’eet eyes turned, and then, 
with one arm still around her father, she leaned forward, 
clasping the other about her mother, and lisped : 

“ ‘ Pearl loves both — wants to stay with both ! ’ 

“ With all her little strength she drew them together. 
Had she lived, she would have held them so, I truly be- 
lieve. Well, you have heard that, after a few hours’ ill- 
ness, our darling went to heaven. Oh, then came this 
fearful change ! If he had not alone nursed his sorrow 
but shared with her, I think she could have borne it 
better. With never a caress, never a word of love or 
sympathy, the months and years have passed; and now, 
at last, the end has come. You have come to take her 
from us, back to her own sunny home. I shall never see 
her more, I know. If she leaves, it will be forever.” 

“ Margery,” I said, “ do you not see she is dying here — 
starving ? I must take her to those who-will feed her with 
the best of all food — sympathy and love. We will bring 
hack life and hope.” 


WON AGAIN. 


135 


Her physician had advised travel, change of scene. She 
insisted she was not ill, and seemed careless of everything. 
Not even the thought of revisiting the home and friends 
of her childhood aroused any interest, and he neither 
opposed nor sanctioned the doctor’s advice. 

Things were in this state when I found Clarice. At 
length she agreed to go with me. 

“ Shall I go ? ” she forced herself, from the barrier of ice, 
to ask. 

“As you please,” he answered, in a voice that made me 
shiver. 

Ah, he knew well enough when she left, it would be 
forever! She could have won him again, I am sure. 
Could the wounded heart have ceased its smarting? I 
knew what it was. I could solve the mystery. Dis- 
appointed that her power had so soon failed — mortified 
that she had tried to win a love so short-lived, and 
wounded to the very quick by his cold indifference, she 
had drawn herself behind a wall of ice. For nearly eight 
years she had lived thus. And he had been disappointed. 
He had expected the merry child to continue her loving 
wdles — on and on, never growing less, although he threw 
not a ray of sunshine on her path. Caged, yet he expected 
her to sing as when free, and taught by love. 

She was ready to start. Like an automaton, she had 
moved about making the necessary preparations. Every- 
thing that told of little Pearl was collected and packed. 
Only one — her picture, that hung in his room. Could she 
leave that? No; she must, she would take it. She be- 
lieved him away, purposely to avoid a parting. 

Creeping, fearful of even a remonstrance from Margery, 
she entered the room. All was quiet. Stepping on a 
chair, she lifted the pictured angel-child, and clasping it 
tightly to her bosom, was turning to leave the room, when 
a hand was laid not heavily, only firmly, on her shoulder. 


136 


WON AGAIN. 


“ You must not take that, Clarice,” her husband said. 

“ I must— I shall ! She was mine. I cannot leave this ” 
she cried. 

“ I have nothing else. Give me it ! ” He took hold of 
the picture ; she clinging tightly, cried : 

‘‘ No, no, to me ; give her to me ! ” 

Hush ! A sweet, tiny voice was heard. Clarice’s eyes 
were lifted ; her ear strained to catch the sound. Her hus- 
band’s face had lost its sternness. His bosom rose and fell 
convulsively. 

“ Pearl loves both ; wants to stay with both,” fell clearly, 
distinctly on the ear of each. The mother’s hold was 
loosened, and sobbing, she sank to the floor. 

Had the angel-child’s spirit hovered about them ? Was 
her mission to unite again the sundered hearts ? Or, was it 
only the well-remembered cry of the baby-girl that fllled 
the ear, and entered the hearts of both at that moment ? 
Who knows ? 

Stooping, he gently raised her, bent his head, and said, 
in a soft, low tone : 

“ Let her be with both, Clarice, and if our darling’s spirit 
hovers near, let her And us not apart.” 

It was little Pearl’s father that spoke thus. 

AVon again — won forever — ^back to love ! back to God ! 
We went South together, she, I, and the baby’s father. 
Rapidly Claric^e’s health and spirits returned. “ The effects 
of the warmer clime,” her friends said. I knew what it 
was, and thanked God, feeling sure that when again in her 
Northern home no chilling blasts would hurt her. There 
wa^ warmth in the heart that was bound to shield her. 
She has only the babe in heaven. 

‘‘ Thank God for giving me little Pearl ! Better to have 
had her taken than never given,” she said — than never to 
have known my baby’s blessed influence.” 


LADY MARGARET 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN 



'UDGE VERNON had been childless for years, when 


tJ little Margaret came to him. It was a great disap- 
pointment to both parents that the little stranger was not 
a boy, but loved her none the less. Indeed, they made an 
idol of their beautiful child. The title of “ Lady Margaret ” 
had been given her by the nurse ere the little one was 
fully a month old. 

Her constant companion was the gardener’s little son 
Joseph. He was such a spirited, handsome, bewitching 
boy, that no wonder the cry oft arose to Judge Vernon’s 
lips: 

“ Why could not such a son have been given me ? ” 

Joseph Grey was five years old when Lady Margaret’s 
tiny fingers clasped tightly his. Her very first smile was 
given to him. Joseph it was who guided her footsteps in 
the first attempts to walk, encouraged and coaxed her lisp- 
ing words, and almost went wild with delight when the 
pretty ruby lips spoke plainly, “ Josie.” 

When the little lady was seven years old a governess 
was obtained for her. Every morning, seated beside her 
in the school-room, Josie was found. It was my little 
lady’s will to have him there, and both parents and 
teacher were well pleased to have it so. So the 3^ears rolled 
on until Lady Margaret reached her twelfth year, 


( 137 ) 


138 


LADY MARGARET. 


Mrs. Vernon’s health, never robust, had been steadily 
declining since her daughter’s birth. Her physician in- 
sisted that she should try the influence of another and 
milder clime. 

Judge Vernon, resigning his law duties, and leaving the 
homestead in charge of Josie’s father, carried his wife and 
daughter to the south of France. Every fortnight brought 
letters from Judge Vernon, and for the first two years they 
always gladdened Josie’s heart with messages from the 
little lady to her playmate. The third year the poor boy 
was often disappointed. Lady Margaret seldom then sent 
even a word of remembrance. At length that stopped. 
All mention of her name with regard to Joseph ceased 
entirely. 

Mrs. Vernon’s health was not improved, as they had 
hoped, by the change. Indeed she grew so much weaker 
they dared not attempt the homeward journey. And so 
they lingered abroad for five years. Then Margaret and 
her father came. Three months previous they had placed 
the loved form in the graveyard of Toulouse. Tenderly 
Mrs. Grey soothed the motherless girl. She, too, poor 
woman, had had her sorrow. Josie’s father had passed 
from earth during their absence. 

Gently raising the bowed head, she said : 

“Here is your old playmate waiting to welcome you 
home. Lady Margaret,” 

Fondly and proudly the mother’s eyes rested on her son 
as he came forward, his handsome face beaming with the 
joy her coming had brought him. 

“ Thank God for your safe return home, my little lady.” 
Ah, the loved title burst forth, although he had thought to 
say “ Miss Vernon.” 

“For she is a young lady now, and you must never 
forget that, my boy. She must be called Miss Vernon,” 
Joseph’s mother had said, only a few hours before. 


LADY MARGARET. 


139 


And when the beautiful, stately maiden raised her eyes 
there was a startled expression in them that the poor youth 
scarce understood. 

“ Thank you, I am glad to be home again,” she said, in 
answer to his glad greeting, placing her hand in his. 

“ As if we had parted only a few days or hours before,” 
Joseph said, in an agony of disappointment. 

“ Such a greeting, after all these years of weary waiting. 
Oh, my little lady, I would have given years of life to have 
heard those sweet lips say ‘ Josie.’ But my little lady is 
Miss Vernon now. And I, let me not forget — I am only 
the gardener’s son.” 

At the same hour, in her own room, Margaret was think- 
ing of that meeting, and said : 

“ Yes, I might have been more kind. He, too, has had 
his sorrow. And not even when the news of his father’s 
death reached us, did I send one word of sympathy to 
him. Ah, that we were still children together ! What is 
home without mother and Josie? The one gone; the 
other to be put aside. Yes, yes, better commence the 
bitter task at once.” 

The day after Judge Vernon’s return, Joseph Grey re- 
quested his presence in the library, where he placed for 
his inspection a book neatly and accurately kept, of the 
expenditures and receipts during the judge’s absence. 

“ Why, my boy, this is excellently well done, but you 
have taken a great deal of unnecessary trouble. I ex- 
plained to your good father, that I wanted him to make 
the place clear expenses during my absence. But I sup- 
pose his illness, and — Well, my boy, we have both had 
our sorrow. I scarcely feel like attending to business. 
You can tell me how we stand; what indebtedness?” 

“ On the contrary, sir,” Joseph interposed, “ you’ll see 
here that I have placed to your account five thousand 
dollars,’’ handing a bank book. 


140 


LADY MARGABET. 


“ Impossible ! Why, my boy — ” Here the judge stopped, 
took off his glasses, wiped them, and looking intently at 
Joseph, he said: 

“You are no longer a boy. How old are you, Joseph?’^ 

“My own man, sir,” Joseph answered, smilingly, adding, 
“twenty-one, six months ago.” 

Again arose the cry in Judge Vernon’s heart, “Oh, why 
could not such a son have been given me? ” 

“Joseph, that sum I shall immediately transfer to 3mur 
credit. It is justly yours,” Judge Vernon said, handing 
back the books. 

“No, sir, I cannot permit that.” How handsome he 
looked; and though his manner was deeply respectful, 
there was a flush that mantled the noble brow, a light in 
his eye that Judge Vernon understood, and thought: 
“How proud he is! Oh, that there were more like him — 
George Mason, for instance. Then I could give my Mar- 
garet to him, feeling confident of her happiness.” 

“Well, Joseph, you have plans for the future; of course 
you cannot stay here. Regret as I shall to lose you, I 
would send you forth, I feel swre, to a path of honor and 
distinction. Can I help you?” Judge Vernon said, with 
much feeling. 

Joseph caught his hand, and pressing it warmly, an- 
swered : 

“ Thank you, dear sir, both for your offer and good — - 
nay, flattering opinion. You can help me; I heard you 
say you should resume your legal duties. I should like 
to read law with you.” 

“ With pleasure, my boy. Then we shall not be sepa- 
rated yet a while. I see plainly how much knowledge you 
have gained during my absence. You have studied hard 
— you must have.” 

“ I have studied much, sir. But ’twas not hard, I love 
it so.” 


LADY MARGARET. 


141 


The conversation was interrupted by a gentle knock on 
the door, and immediately Margaret came in, saying : 

“ Please, papa, go see Mr. Mason. He is in the drawing- 
room. I do not feel like receiving calls to-day. Excuse 
me, please.” 

“ Well, well, to-day I will. But you must be polite to 
him, my love. I cannot forget how attentive he was to us 
across the water. His father was my dearest friend.” 

Joseph’s heart gave a bound of joy. She would surely 
linger a few moments — speak, perchance, of the old times, 
and call him again Josie. 

He raised his eyes, full of glad expectation. They met 
hers, and with a pleasant smile and “ Good-morning,” she 
passed from the room. 

“ Indeed, my little lady, I must learn to call you differ- 
ently. I can scarcely believe my own eyes, you have 
grown so tall and womanly. But five years bring great 
changes. Look at Josie ! ” There was pride in the mother’s 
voice and eyes. 

‘‘Yes — you may well be proud of Josie, nurse. I sup- 
pose he is a great favorite with the village girls ? ” Margaret 
said. 

If the mother had read Margaret’s eyes aright, she 
would have seen more interest there than she would im- 
agine, from the cold, steady voice. 

“ Ah, yes, indeed. And there is more than one, whose 
eyes would brighten at his coming. But he only cares for 
his books, my lady. Every spare hour he is in the library.” 

The anxious look gave way, and Margaret’s beautiful 
eyes were full of peace, as she turned to meet Joseph. 

“ The first flowers and fruit of the season, Miss Vernon,” 
he said, holding towards her a bouquet of roses and violets^ 
and placing on the table a basket of strawberries. 


112 


LADY MARGARET. 


How smiling and happy he looked ! She knew he must 
have heard her last words to his mother. Her face was hid 
among the flowers, to hide the crimson-tide. 

“How beautiful! Thank you,” she said. Placing the 
flowers in a vase, she turned away. 

“She might have put them in her own room,” sighed 
Joseph. “ But I will not grieve for this. She is not alto- 
gether indifferent to me. She called me Josie. She cannot 
have forgotten — no, she remembers — that she is Miss 
Vernon, and the difference, nay, the distance between us.” 

Indeed, after that day the distance seemed to widen. 
Mrs. Grey, who, during the absence of the family, had occu- 
pied apartments in Vernon Mansion, a few days after their 
return went back to the gardener’s cottage. 

A few weeks after this, Joseph Grey was in the library 
at Judge Vernon’s request, copying a legal document, when 
the door opened, and Margaret and her father entered. 

“ Can you give your father a few moments, my daughter ? 
Since your young friends have been here, I hardly get a 
look at you, or have you a moment all to myself” 

“ Oh, you dearest of fathers, do not be jealous ! Do you 
not know that you will have me all alone to yourself as long 
as you live?” Margaret said, clasping her arms about his 
neck and pressing her lips to his. 

“ No, no, love I No, little lady. I want to talk to you 
about just this very thing. I have a letter from George 
Mason. You must read it, and give me his answer.” 

More rapidly went Joseph ‘s pen. Louder the scratching 
on the paper. He could not get out without passing them. 
He hoped they would hear him. He was revolving in his 
mind what to do, when Margaret said: 

“ I shall never marry, father.” 

“Nay, nay, love. You distress me. I should not be 
content to seek your mother, leaving you alone here. You 
do not dislike Mason, my dear ? 


LADY MARGARET. 


143 


Oh, no. But I do not like him well enough to marry 
him, papa.” 

“ Let me give him hope ! for my sake, dear ! There is 
no one that I could give you to that I like so well. Ah, if 
it were not — ” 

An exclamation of pain, almost simultaneously with 
which Margaret, in a low, warning voice, said : “ Father ! ” 
and Joseph Grey came forward. 

What is it, Joseph ? You are ill surely.” 

“ No, dear sir. A sudden and sharp pain which I hope 
will not be continual,” Joseph answered. 

“Ah, I know you have been working too hard. There, 
go home and rest, my boy.” 

As Joseph passed Lady Margaret he raised his eyes to 
hers. She could not have mistaken the wild, appealing 
look ; yet turning away she said : 

“ I will try to make you happy, father.” 

That evening Joseph Grey announced to Judge Vernon 
his intention of leaving home the next day. 

“ So sudden this is, my boy,” surprised and pained, the 
judge said. 

“ No, sir. I Ve been intending for several weeks to tell 
you ; but I dreaded so much this separation I have delayed 
speaking of it until the latest moment,” Joseph answered, 
with much feeling. 

There was a long conversation, and the judge concluded 
by saying : 

“ I will say good-by to-night. I may not be up in the 
morning. Write to me, dear boy. And call on me if I can 
help you. Feel as if you were applying to your father, 
Joseph ; and now God bles& you ! ” 

Early the next morning a wild cry arose in the Vernon 
mansion. Judge Vernon’s spirit had fled. 


144 


LADY MARGARET. 


The hour for Joseph’s departure came. He had watched 
an opportunity when finding Margaret alone to say good- 

by. 

Paler than the pale girl before him, he approached her. 

“ Miss Vernon, I am going, I have come to say good-by.” 

She did not speak. She had been prepared for it. She 
arose and held out her hand. 

“ Good-by, Miss Vernon.” 

He stood before her, holding her hand tightly between 
his own. She raised her eyes, to meet a world of love in 
his. Quickly her own drooped, and seeking to release her 
hand, she said : 

“ Good-by.” 

“And this is all. You will send me forth without a 
word, a kind wish I Oh, my little lady, say ‘ I ’ll not for- 
get you, Josie ! ’ Oh, turn not away. Lady Margaret ! 
Speak to me ! For never loved man as I love you ! my 
lady! my queen 1 ” Joseph cried, still tightly holding her 
hand. 

Ah, she raised not her eyes as she spoke the cruel words. 

“ You forget I The women of our race have never blushed 
for the object of their love. They never unite their fate 
except with those of whom not only they, but their country, 
were proud. Go I May you be prosperous and happy. 
Farewell I ” 

She disengaged her hand, and turned away. 

The door closed after him. A moment more and she 
hid her face amid the cushions of the sofa, and with a moan 
of agony, cried : 

“ Alone ! Alone I All gone now I ” . 

“My little lady!” 

She sprang up to see Joseph bending over her. 

“ Why are you here ? ” she asked, reproachfully. 

“Why? To pledge my heart, my life to you! To tell 


LADY MARGARET. 


145 


yon, my prond lady, that I will win you ! Heaven will 
reward such love as mine. I ask no word of hope now. 
But I shall work and pray, and you may know that I am 
waiting for you to bid me ‘ come.’ ” 

“ Go ! oh, go ! ” she cried, beseechingly. 

V He turned, hesitated, and sprang forward to catch her 
to his heart — to hold her there an instant only, press his 
lips to her brow, and cry : 

‘‘ God bless and keep you, m}^ love, my life ! ” and passed 
from her sight. 

If Joseph confided his love to his mother, she gave no 
intimation whatever of it to Margaret. 

Immediately after her son’s departure, Mrs. Grey became 
again an inmate of Margaret’s home. Then, as a guest and 
esteemed friend, Margaret never again addressed her by the 
old title of ‘‘ nurse.” Very soon the servants caught their 
mistress’s mood, and, ere long, it seemed that tlie house- 
hold, even Mrs. Grey herself, forgot that she had ever been 
other than the dear friend and guest of the Vernon family. 

^largaret seldom went into society. Still her beauty 
attracted many admirers. Suitors she had, one after 
another, meeting the same fate. Perhaps it was harder 
for her to put aside her father’s choice, or, perhaps, he was 
more determined than the others. At any rate, George 
Mason continued his visits. Joseph, in his far Western 
home, knew of this, but his faith never grew less. 

From letters to his mother, Margaret only knew of his 
good health and good spirits. Tims the months grew into 
years. Then from the political journals she learned of 
Joseph’s rapidly growing popularity. Of his advance to 
one and another position of greater importance. 

Five years past — oh, such long weary years to the waiting 
hearts at home. In answer to the oft-repeated cry, “ My 
boy, eomo to me ! ” he would write : 

9 


143 


LADY MARGARET. 


“ Not yet can I come ! Would to Heaven I might ! ” 

Margaret alone understood this. 

“ Oh, lohy will he not come? I am almost dying to see 
my boy ! ” his mother said. Margaret’s heart echoed this 
cry, yet she would not send that one little word. 

George Mason, at length, despairing of winning Margaret, 
had transferred his affections to her dearest friend, a beau- 
tiful little blonde, whose loving nature soon comforted him 
for any disappointment he might have suffered. 

Eagerly Margaret watched the papers to know of Joseph’s 
upward career. She knew that he was to represent his 
adopted State at the national capital. There she would go 
with his mother, and amid the throng meet him. This she 
had determined. The prospect of seeing her boy w’as 
joy too great for the anxious mother. As the time drew 
near, her excitement grew intense ; and the day which was 
to have carried them to Washington brought to Joseph the 
long-looked-for word from Lady Margaret : 

“ Come,” she wrote, “ your mother is ill. We cannot 
come to you.” 

Ah, did ever so few words bring so much of joy and 
sorrow combined ! 

Weary with long watching in the sick-room, Margaret 
stole out to wait for Joseph’s coming. 

If in his eyes I find the same old look, the love of years 
shall find its own. Oh, my love shall have a joyful greet- 
ing,” she said. 

Watching, waiting, eager, she pressed her hand over her 
heart to still its wild beating. 

“ Oh, why does he not come? What can detain him? ” 

Wearily she sank back, her heart filled with fears. 

Presently a murmur of hushed voices, slow, cautious 
steps ; and the dreadful words — “ dying or dead,” reached 
her ear. Then she heard of a frightful collision, and when 
the door opened, she sprang up with a cry of agony : 


LADY MARGARET. 


147 


“ Oh, my love ! my love ! you must not die ! ” 

“Die? Why, you have been dreaming, my darling! 
No, dear love, I have just now begun to live,” Joseph said, 
holding her closer to his heart, as he read in her eyes all 
the love for which he had waited and worked. 

When Joseph had spent an hour, cheering and making 
well his mother, he coaxed Margaret away, to whisper in 
her ear : 

“ My lady, do you know, you have not said to me even 
one little word of love, save those from a terrible dream ! 
Oh, my love is a proud little lady still,” he said, playfully 
raising her face, more beautiful than ever, now flushed 
with joy. He was more than satisfied, when she placed 
her hand in his, and said : 

“Yes, I am prouder now than ever in life before: and 
my greatest pride shall always be to be worthy of your 
love, Josie.” 


SPOONS. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

^HE clear, smooth brow of Mrs. St. James clouded 



JL and contracted unmistakably. As she stood at the 
window, her eyes wandering about the beautiful grounds 
surrounding her home, they rested on two figures seated 
in a rustic arbor. They were her daughter Alice and 
young Gerald Clifton. Now Mrs. St. James would have 
preferred seeing any other of the young gentlemen of her 
acquaintance with Alice, than the present one. She turned 
impatiently from the window, saying : 

“My remonstrance is useless. She is perfectly infat- 
uated — and her father scarcely less so. I can’t imagine 
what he is thinking about. He has not a care about his 
child making a brilliant match. There is Albert Hyde, 
young Lord Clavering, and half a dozen others, any of 
whom she could marry : all eligible, and should be con- 
sidered really more desirable and worthy. But no — this 
young man, with neither wealth nor position, has, I fear, 
secured the hearts of both Alice and her father. And I 
really think, unless something providential prevents, she 
will marry him.” 

The lovely Alice, quite unconscious of the unfavorable 
eyes which had lingered on them, was listening with de- 
light to a beautiful poem her lover was reading. Suddenly 


( 148 ) 


SPOONS. 


149 


he closed the book, and looking earnestly on his com- 
panion said : 

“ Your mother dislikes me very mtich, Alice. I fear I 
shall never win her favor.” 

“ No, no, not dislike you : but there are others she likes 
better, perhaps. But papa will yet win her over. He 
loves you, and mamma dearly loves him. So in time 
all will be well,” answered Alice, with a sweet, assuring 
smile. 

“ I trust so, Alice. And in time I will prove worthy of 
your love and your father’s confidence. I will make a 
name for you, love, with Heaven’s blessing.” 

A week or so after, Sydney St. James was returning 
home from his editorial office. He had had a harassing 
day, and was very tired. He wanted rest, and a quiet even- 
ing; saying to himself, “I trust we shall have no com- 
pany, unless Gerald ; he never wearies me. Bless the boy 1 
I am growing strangely fond of him.” He entered the 
house, made his way to the parlor, where he was accus- 
tomed to find his family. Alas ! for his hopes of rest and 
quiet. There, instead of the usual pleasant greeting from 
his wife, the bright smile and loving embrace of his 
daughter, he found the first very much excited, with hash- 
ing eyes and glowing cheeks ; the latter sobbing, her face 
hidden in the cushion of the sofa. Hastily approaching 
her, he raised her head tenderly and asked : 

“ What is it, love? ” 

Another rush of tears; then her head nestled in her 
father’s bosom. 

“ What has happened ? ” he asked, in real anxiety, look- 
ing to his wife. 

“ Well, I always knew something was wrong about him, 
and how very presumptuous he was ; but I never did sup- 
pose he would descend to such a low, crim — ” 


160 


8POONS. 


Mamma ! oh, don’t, pray ! ” sobbed Alice. 

“lie! who? What is it?” asked Mr. St. James, growing 
more and more anxious. 

“Well, your great favorite, Mr. Clifton, 'was here at noon, 
to take leave of Alice, before leaving for Scotland. We 
were about going out shopping when he came ; so of course 
were detained. I drew off my gloves, and laid them, with 
my porte-monnaie, handkerchief and sunshade on the 
centre table. I saw him take up the porte-monnaie, and 
look at it; I thought just admiring it. You know it w^as 
that pearl and inlaid one you gave me at Christmas. Well, 
after a little while I went into the next room, immediately 
returning when I heard him about leaving. I bade him 
good-by in the hall, and proceeded to draw on my gloves 
again, intending to go on our proposed excursion. I 
missed the jDorte-monnaie ; but thinking Alice had put it 
in her pocket, I was not anxious. When she was again 
ready to start, I said : 

“ ‘ You have the money ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ she replied. 

“ We began to look about, but our hunt was in vain. 
You can readily arrive at the conclusion, and the cause of 
Alice’s mortification and grief,” said Mrs. St. James, in a 
manner and tone that looked and sounded very much like 
she was rather glad of it. 

“And do you for a moment imagine, or ■would have me, 
that Clifton — ” Mr. St. James hesitated. 

“ Stole it ? Certainly.” 

Another sob from Alice, with the cry : 

“ Don’t — don’t, mamma ! ” 

“ Tut, tut, tut, wife. Hush, Alice, love. There is some 
mistake. I’d risk all my worldly possessions — aye, and 
my life— on Gerald’s honesty and noble nature,” said Mr. 
St. James. 


SPOONS. 


161 


“You would lose both, then. There is no mistake, my 
dear. You know he has been much embarrassed in money 
matters. I know no one entered this room but him ; and 
I know the porte-monnaie is gone, and in it a hundred 
pounds. You can call it by what name you choose. I 
have my own idea about the matter. However, should you 
put it in the mildest form, kleptomania would not be a 
very desirable acquisition to our family. Alice, I think, 
feels fully sensible of that. Why you have thought so 
much of him I cannot tell.” 

“ Why ? ” and the dark brown eyes of Sydney St. James 
grew more earnest, and glowed with a tender, loving light; 
and in a voice full of emotion, he said, “ Why ? Because 
I, who have no son of my own, see in this young man a 
reproduction of myself — the struggles of my youth. So 
much he brings to my mind those years of trial — oh, those 
.long, weary, heart-sickening years! — when, alone in my 
humble, cheerless room, I brewed my own coffee, broiled 
my chops, and worked — worked, day and night, so long 
before I could get any production accepted, and then, 
for many months after, before I received any remuner- 
ation. And then how small it was! how meagrely 
dealt out ! Aye, and in the very act of which you accuse 
him, most forcibly I see the great resemblance between 
us. 

“At the time when the ‘Prison Reform Bill’ was very 
much engrossing the public mind, my fortunes took a 
favorable turn. I wrote a leader on that subject. It was 
published, and although I am sure it was no better than 
many I had written before, it pleased the people. . A few 
days after, when in the office of the editor of the journal 
in which my productions were principally published, that 
gentleman handed me a note, which opening I found was 
from the Secretary of the Premier, saying his lordship 


152 


SPOON S . 


would be pleased to see me, and appointing the next day 
for my call. Lord Cedarclitf received me most kindly, 
complimenting me on that article, that really proved the 
making of my present success. That call was the begin- 
ning of my intimacy with his lordship. A few days after, I 
was invited to a dinner party given by Lord Cedarcliff. 
There I met many of the noble and distinguished men of 
tlie time. It was my first dinner party, and naturally I 
was considerably embarrassed. However, his lordship’s 
kindness, and the marked attention of many of his guests, 
placed me more at ease. During the dinner. Lord Cedar- 
cliff called our attention to a gold spoon, curiously wrought, 
and very valuable. It was said to have belonged to the 
camp equipage of Napoleon. The conversation, then, from 
the Emperor and his battles, naturally turned to those of 
the Crimea, and the prolonged siege of Sebastopol. Sev- 
eral of the gentlemen expressed their views as to how the 
city might have been taken ; and I, considerably excited 
by the wine, and like most young men, possessing my full 
share of egotism, had my ideas about the matter. So I 
began to explain how Sebastopol might have been taken 
very speedily. With the handle of the Emperor’s spoon, 
I marked my plan on the table-cloth. After a little I 
became conscious that a silence more than profound, really 
painful, had fallen upon the company. I felt confident it 
could not have been occasioned by their great interest in 
my theme. I had wearied them, most likely, or perhaps 
I had said or done something very outre. The embarrass- 
ment was somewhat relieved by his lordship’s making the 
move for our adjournment to the drawing-room. There, 
however, I could not fail to observe that I had in some 
way lost favor. His lordship was too polite, frigidly so. 
In truth, the whole atmosphere seemed changed. At 
length I excused myself, and left, sadly mystified as to the 


SPOONS. 


153 


change, in not only his lordship’s treatment of me, but 
likewise of most of his guests. 

“ A few days after, I called on Lord Cedarcliff, but was 
told by the butler that his lordship was engaged ; again 
the next day, with the same result; a third time, with no 
better success. Determining to press the matter a little, 
and find out, if possible, what such treatment meant, I 
asked : 

“ ‘ When can I see his lordship ? ’ 

“ Judge of my mortification, when the butler replied : 

“ It will not be agreeable for his lordship to receive Mr. 
St. James now, or at any future time.’ 

“ I could not imagine what I had done to merit such a 
change in the Premier’s kind feeling. In vain I asked 
myself, over and over, ‘ What did I say or do at the dinner- 
table ? ’ for I was sensible the change took place there. 

“ That evening I was engaged to go with a friend to the 
opera. I felt in no mood for such enjoyment, I was so 
depressed by my reception at the Premier’s mansion. 
However, my friend would not excuse me, and so I began 
getting ready to accompany him. Taking from the closet 
my only dress coat — indeed I may say my only respecta- 
ble one — which was kept for great occasions, ^ began to 
brush and dust it. I had not worn it since the Premier’s 
dinner party. While thus engaged, the brush struck 
against something in the pocket. Putting my hand in to 
ascertain what it was, I drew out — oh, horror ! — the Em- 
peror’s golden spoon ! 

“The mystery was solved then. I had pocketed that 
spoon while seated at his lordship’s table. Many times — 
in fact I was accustomed, when deeply interested in con- 
versation, to pocket pens, pencils, knives, handkerchiefs 
and napkins ; but never before anything of much value. 
For a moment I was so overwhelmed with mortification I 


154 


SPOONS. 


could only gaze wildly from the spoon to my friend. 
Then, hurriedly pulling on my coat, I caught up my hat, 
still grasping the spoon, rushed out of the room, down the 
stairs, and into the street. My companion started to follow 
me, calling out : 

“‘St. James, are you mad? Stop! I must go with 
you I ” 

“ I stopped not, nor deigned a word of reply, but rushed 
on through the streets until I reached the Premier’s dwel- 
ling. I rang the bell, and when the butler opened the 
door, I said : 

“ ‘ I must see his lordship. Tell him it is a matter of 
life and death 1 ’ 

“ My excited manner testified to the urgency of my case, 
so the man turned to do my bidding. With quick, noise- 
less steps I followed behind him. He opened the door of 
his lordship’s sanctum, but before he opened his mouth to 
speak, I rushed past him, and up to the nobleman’s side, 
exclaiming : 

“ ‘ My lord, here is your spoon — that Emperor’s spoon ! 
On my honor — ’ Excited as I was, I could detect a curl 
of the hauglity lip, as if to signify his lordship’s doubt of 
my possessing that quality. ‘Ah, I fear you think I know 
nothing of such a feeling,’ I continued ; ‘ but, as heaven 
hears me, I had no more idea of having taken that spoon, 
until fifteen minutes ago, than your lordship has now of 
having purloined the crown jewels.’ 

“ My look, words and manner enforced conviction. After 
an instant his lordship grasped my hand, saying : 

“ ‘ I believe you, St. James. I wonder, now, how I could 
ever have doubted you. I might have known how it 
was.’ 

“ So excited had I been, I failed to notice the room had 
other occupants. A merry laugh reached my ear. Turn- 


SPOONS. 


166 


ing, I saw several gentlemen who were present at the 
dinner party. They came forward, each grasping my 
hand cordially, and apologizing for their suspicions. Tbe 
story w'as told many times after, and afforded considerable 
amusement. And after a while I could join in the laugh ; 
but for a long time it was a very sore subject. 

“Now, Alice, love, rest easy. I’ll answer for Gerald. 
We will hear from him before long ; just as soon as he has 
made the discovery. Come, smile, now ; and — Ah, there 
is the dinner bell. I cannot have a clouded face near me. 
It will take away my appetite.” 

Alice tried to smile, but it proved a poor apology for 
one. 

They were just about entering the dining-room, when a 
servant met them, holding out an envelope, saying : 

“A telegram, sir.” 

Quickly opening which, Mr. St. James exclaimed joy- 
ously : 

“Ah, I knew it I It is from Gerald.” 

It was from Peterborough, addressed to Mr. St. James, 
and read : 

“ Took, by mistake, an article of value from your house. 
Will return with it by the next train.” 

“ Bless the boy ! How could you have doubted him, 
Alice ? You, of all others ! I can scarcely forgive you,” 
her father said, affectionately chiding her. 

Alice’s face was radiant with smiles then, and she whis- 
pered in her father’s ear : 

“ Gerald will.” 

A fcAV hours more and young Clifton was with them, 
and the port-monnaie restored to the owner. The event 
served to bind more firmly the aflection of Mr. St James 


156 


SPOONS. 


to his favorite, who, in a year after, became his son-in-law; 
and in time, not only fulfilled the great expectation of St. 
James, but quite reconciled Mrs. St. James to the fact of 
Alice’s husband bearing no lordly title, but one won by 
his own merit. And that worthy lady has been more 
cautious in pronouncing so decidedly upon the, actions of 
literary folks, since the event of the missing port-monnaie 
and the hearing of her husband’s story ; and she is often 
heard to say now, that “deep thinkers, who are nearly 
all the time planning the future, cannot be expected to be 
anything else than absent-minded. In fact, it is a positive 
proof of a great mind.” 


THE FLOWERS’ WORK. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

EE, mother ! I’ve finished my bouquet. Isn’t it 
beautiful ? More so, I think, than those made by 
the florist which he asked two dollars for, and this has 
cost me but seventy-five cents.” 

“ Yes, yes, it is very pretty. But, dear me, child, I can- 
not help thinking how illy we can spare so much for such 
a very useless thing. Almost as much as you can make 
in a day it has cost.” 

“ Don’t say useless^ mother. It will express to Edward 
our appreciation of his exertions and their result, and our 
regards. How he has struggled to obtain a profession! 
I only wish I could cover the platform with bouquets, 
baskets and wreaths to-night, when he receives his 
diploma.” 

“Well, well; if it will do any good, I shall not mind the 
expense. But, child, he will know it is from you, and 
men don’t care for such things coming from home folks. 
Now, if it was from any other young lady, I expect he’d 
he mightily pleased.” 

“ Oh, mother, I don’t think so. Edward will think as 
much of it, coming from his sister-in-law, as from any 
other girl. And it will please Kate, too. If we do not 
think enough of him to send him bouquets, who else 
could? Rest easy, mother, dear; I feel quite sure my 

(157) 


158 


THE flowers’ work. 


bouquet will do much good,” answered Annie, putting her 
bouquet in a glass of water. 

She left the room to make her simple toilet for the 
evening. 

Mrs. Grey had been widowed when her two little girls 
were in their infancy. It had been a hard struggle for 
the mother to raise her children. Constant toil, priva- 
tion and anxiety had worn heavily on her naturally 
delicate constitution, until she had become a confirmed 
invalid. But there was no longer a necessity for her toil- 
ing. Katy, the elder daughter, was married ; and Annie, 
a loving, devoted girl, could now return the mother’s long 
and loving care. By her needle she obtained a support 
for herself and mother. 

Katy’s husband held a position under the government, 
receiving a small compensation, only sufficient for the 
necessities of the present, and of very uncertain continu- 
ance. He was ambitious of doing better than this for 
himself, as well as his family. So he employed every 
spare hour in studying medicine, and it was the night 
that he was to receive his diploma that my little story 
begins. 

The exercises of the evening were concluded. Edward 
Boberts came down the aisle to where his wife and Annie 
were seated, bearing his flowers — an elegant basket, taste- 
fully arranged, and a beautiful bouquet. But it needed 
only a quick glance for Annie to see it was not her 
bouquet. Although the flowers were fragrant and rare, 
they were not so carefully selected or well chosen. Hers 
expressed not alone her affection and appreciation, but 
his energy, perseverance and success. 

“Why, where is my bouquet? I do not see it,” asked 
Annie, a look of disappointment on her usually bright 
face. 


THE FLOWERS^ WORK. lo9 

“ Yours? I do not know. Did you send me one? ” re- 
turned her brother-in-law. 

“Indeed I did. And such a beauty, too! It is too 
bad! I suppose it is the result of the stupidity of the 
young man in whose hands I placed it. I told him plain 
enough it was for you, and your name, with mine, 
was on the card,” answered Annie, really very much 
provoked. 

“Well, do not fret, little sister; I am just as much 
obliged ; and perchance some poor fellow not so fortunate 
as I may have received it,” answered Edward Roberts. 

“ Don’t, for pity’s sake, let mother know of the mistake, 
or whatever it is, that has robbed you of your bouquet. 
She will fret dreadfully about it,” said Annie. 

All that night, until she was lost in sleep, did she con- 
stantly repeat : 

“ I wonder who has got it? ” 

She had failed to observe on the list of graduates the 
name of Edgar Roberts^ from Ohio, or she might have had 
an idea into whose hands her bouquet had fallen. Her 
brother Edward, immediately on hearing Annie’s ex- 
clamation, thought how the mistake had occurred, and 
was really glad that it was as it was ; for the young man 
whose name was so nearly like his own was a stranger in 
the city, and Edward had noticed his receiving one 
bouquet only, which of course was the missing one, and 
Annie’s. 

Edgar Roberts sat in his room that night, after his re- 
turn from the distribution of diplomas, holding in his 
hand Annie’s bouquet, and on the table beside him was 
a floral dictionary. An expression of gratification was on 
his pleasant face, and, as again and again his eyes turned 
from the flowers to seek their interpreter, his lips were 
wreathed with smiles, and he murmured low : 

“Annie Grey! Sweet Annie Grey! I never dreamed 


160 


THE flowers' work. 


of any one in this place knowing or caring enough for me 
to send such a tribute. How carefully these flowers are 
chosen ! What a charming, appreciative little girl she is ! 
Pretty, I know, of course. I wonder how she came to send 
me this ? How shall I find her ? Find her I must, and 
know her.” 

And Edgar Roberts fell asleep to dream of Annie Grey, 
and awoke in the morning whispering the last words of 
the night before : 

“ Sweet Annie Grey ! ” 

During the day he found it quite impossible to fix his 
mind on his work ; mind and heart were both occupied 
with thoughts of Annie Grey. And so it continued to be 
until Edgar Roberts was really in love with a girl he knew 
not, nor had ever seen. To find her was his fixed deter- 
mination. But how delicately he must go about it. He 
could not make inquiry among his gentlemen acquaint- 
ance without speculations arising, and a name sacred to 
him then, passed from one to another, lightly spoken per- 
haps. Then he bethought himself of the City Directory; 
he would consult that. And so doing he found Greys in- 
numerable — some in elegant, spacious dwellings, some in 
the business thoroughfares of the place. The young ladies 
of the first mentioned, he thought, living in fashionable 
life, surrounded by many admirers, w^ould scarcely think 
of bestowing any token of regard or appreciation on a poor 
unknown student. The next would have but little time 
to devote to such things ; and time and thought were both 
spent in the arrangement of his bouquet. Among the long 
list of Greys he found one that attracted him more than 
all the others — a widow, living in a quiet part of the cit}^, 
quite near his daily route. So he sought and found the 
place and exact number. Fortune favored him. Standing 
at the door of a neat little^’arae cottage he beheld a young 
girl talking with two little children. She was not the blue- 


THE flowers’ work. 161 

eyed, golden-haired girl of his dreams, but a sweet, earnest, 
dove-eyed darling. And what care he whether her eyes 
were blue or brown, if her name were only Annie ? Oh, 
how could he find out that ? 

She was bidding the little ones “ good-by.” They were 
off from her, on the sidewalk, when the elder child — a 
bright, laughing boy of five — sang out, kissing his little 
dimpled hand : 

‘‘Good-by, Annie, darling!” 

Edgar Roberts felt as if he would like to clasp the little 
fellow to the heart he had relieved of all anxiety. No 
longer a doubt was in his mind. He had found his Annie 
Grey. 

From that afternoon, twice every day he passed the cot- 
tage of the widow Grey, frequently seeing sweet Annie. 
This, however, was his only reward. She never seemed at 
all conscious of his presence. Often her eyes would glance 
carelessly toward him. Often er they were never raised 
from her work. Sewing by the window, she always was. 

What next ? How to proceed, on his fixed determination 
of winning her, if possible? 

Another bright thought. He felt pretty sure she at- 
tended church somewhere ; perhaps had a class in the Sab- 
bath school. So the next Sunday morning, at an early 
hour, he was commanding a view of Annie’s home. 
When the school bells commenced to ring, he grew very 
anxious. A few moments, and the door opened and the 
object of his thoughts stepped forth. How beautiful she 
looked in her pretty white suit ! Now Edgar felt his cause 
was in the ascendency. Some distance behind, and on the 
other side of the street, he followed, ever keeping her in 
view until he saw her enter a not far distant church. 
Every Sunday after found him an attentive listener to the 
Rev. Mr. Ashton, who soon became aware of the presence 
10 


162 


THE FLOWERS^ WORK. 


of Ino vonng gentleman so regularl}^ and apparently so 
inuci- !i '{ ted in the services. So the good man sought 
an opportunity to speak to Edgar, and urge his accepting 
a charge in the Sabbath school, ^^"e can imagine Edgar 
needed no great urging on that subject; so, frequently, he 
stood near his Annie. In the library, while selecting 
books for their pupils, once or twice they had met, and he 
had handed to her the volume for which her hand was 
raised. Of course a smile and bow of acknowledgment 
and thanks rewarded him, 

Edgar was growing happier, and more confident of finnl 
success every week, when an event came which promised 
a speedy removal of all difficulty in his path. The school 
was going to have a picnic. Then and there he would 
certainly have an introduction to Annie, and after spend- 
ing a whole day with her, he would accompany her home 
and win the privilege of calling often. 

The day of the picnic dawned brightly, and the happy 
party gathered on the deck of the steamer. The first per- 
son who met Edgar Roberts’ eye was his fellow-student, 
Edward Roberts. Standing beside him were two ladies 
and some children. When Edgar hastened up to speak to 
his friend, the ladies turned, and Edward presented: 

“ My wife ; my sister. Miss Grey.” 

Edgar Roberts could scarcely suppress an exclamation 
of joy and surprise. His looks fully expressed how de- 
lighted he was. 

Three months had he been striving for this, which, if he 
had only known it, could have been obtained so easily 
through his friend and her brother. But what was so 
difficult to win was the more highly prized. What r. 
happy day it was ! 

Annie was all he had believed her — charming in every 
way. Edgar made a confidant of his friend: told him 
what Edward well knew before, but was wise enough not 


THE flowers’ work. 


163 


to explain the mistake — of his hopes and fears ; and won 
from the prudent brother the promise to help him all he 
could. 

Accompanying Annie home that evening, and gaining 
her permission for him to call again, Edgar lost no time in 
doing so, and often repeated the call. 

Perhaps Annie thought him very fast in his wooing, and 
precipitate in declaring his love, when, after only a fort- 
night visiting her, he said : 

“Annie, do you like me well enough, and trust in me 
sufficiently, to allow me to ask your mother to call me her 
son ? ” 

Either so happy or so surprised was Annie, that she 
could not speak just then. But roses crowded over her 
fair face, and she did not try to withdraw the hand he had 
clasped. 

“ Say, Annie, love,” he whispered. She raised her eyes 
to his with such a strange, surprised look in them, that he 
laughed and said : 

“ You think I am very hasty, Annie. You don’t know 
how long I’ve loved you, and have waited for this hour.” 

“ Long ! — two weeks,” she said. 

“ Why, Annie, darling, it is over three months since I’ve 
been able to think of anything save Annie Grey — ever 
since the night I received my diploma, and your sweet, 
encouraging bouquet. Since that night I’ve known and 
loved you. And how I’ve worked for this hour ! ” 

And then he told her how it was. And when he had 
finished, she looked at him, her eyes dancing merrily, and 
though she tried hard to keep the little rose-bud of a 
mouth demurely shut, it was no use — it would open and 
let escape a rippling laugh, as she said : 

“And this is the work my bouquet went about, is it? 
This is the good it has done me — ” She hesitated ; the 
roses deepened their color as she continued : “And you — ” 


164 


THE FLOWERS^ WORK. 

“ Yes, Annie, it has done much good to me, and I hope 
to you too.” 

“ But, Edgar ” — it was the first time she had called him 
thus, and how happy it made him — “ I must tell you the 
truth — I never sent you a bouquet ! ” 

“ No ! oh, do not say so. Can there be another such 
Annie Grey ? ” 

“No; I am the one who sent the bouquet; but, Edgar, 
you received it through a mistake. It was intended for 
my brother-in-law, Edward ! ” 

“ Stop, Annie, a moment. Are you sorry that mistake 
was made? Do you regret it?” said Edgar, his voice 
filled with emotion. 

“ No, indeed. I am very glad you received it instead,” 
Annie ingenuously replied ; adding quickly : “ But, please, 
do not tell Edward I said so.” 

“ No, no ; I will not tell him that you care a little more 
for Edgar than Edward. Is that it? May I think so, 
Annie ? ” 

She nodded her head, and he caught her to his heart, 
whispering : 

“ Mine at last. My Annie, darling ! Mliat a blessed 
mistake it was ! May I go to your mother, Annie ? ” 

“Yes; and I’ll go with you, Edgar, and hear if she will 
admit those flowers did any good. She thought it a use- 
less expenditure.” 

The widow Grey had become very much attached to the 
kind, attentive young man, and when he came with 
Annie, and asked her blessing on their love, she gave it 
willingly ; and after hearing all about the way it happened, 
she said : 

“Never did flowers such a good work before. They 
carried Edgar to church, made a Christian of him, and 
won for Annie a good, devoted husband, and for me an 
affectionate son.” 


t 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

PLEASANT, gentle-looking girl was seated under the 



Jl\. shade of a great oak-tree. There was a wistful look 
in her brown eyes, as she followed the form of a handsome, 
dashing-looking fellow going down the path, with a bril- 
liant little beauty hanging on his arm. 

“ Oh, I wish it was time to go ! I just hate picnics,” 
she was saying to herself, when lounging, careless and 
free, came Tom Howard, and said : 

“ Everybody here has paired off but you and me. Miss 
Grayson. Oh, I’m not going to call you so. My sisters 
call you Annie, and I think I might. You are tired, I see, 
and the day not half spent. Come! I’m going to try and 
make myself agreeable, and perhaps the hours may be 
endured until the going home time comes. Now, Annie, 
I know what you were thinking about when I came up.” 

Annie shook her head, and said : 

“ Indeed you do not.” 

“ Very well, if I’m right, you will own up? ” 

A smiling assent from Annie. 

“You were hating picnics, because a certain handsome 
fellow is devoting himself to a would-be belle ! ” 

Annie blushed so deeply that Tom said : 

“That’s all right. I have a knack of reading looks. 
I’m glad you are not an acknowledged beauty, Annie. I 


( 165 ) 


166 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


detest having to talk to such girls. One has got to keep, 
while with them, the same look of admiration on his face, 
and neither see nor hear anybody else. It is really good 
to have a sensible girl to talk to.” 

“ Indeed, I’d just like to be as pretty as Miss Oakley ! 
Just see how Harry keeps beside her.” Annie’s lips quiv- 
ered just a little then. Ah, she had let her secret slip out. 

Tom felt as if he would enjoy giving Harry Cleveland a 
good thrashing. He felt sure he had been trifling with 
the gentle girl’s heart. But Tom thought changing the 
conversation would help matters just then. 

“ Have you ever spent a winter in town, Annie ? ” 

Annie never had ; but said : 

‘‘ I would like to, ever so much.” 

“ Katie has mother’s commands to either bring you, or 
the promise of your coming before Christmas,” Tom said. 
“And, then. I’ll promise you the gayest time you ever 
had.” 

On and on Tom talked, telling of the “ time ” they had 
last season, and relating anecdotes and jokes, so that, not- 
withstanding an occasional sigh, when Harry came in 
sight, Annie was surprised when some one called : 

“ The boat is coming I ” 

Tom managed to catch Harry alone on the way home, 
and say : 

“Cleveland, since I’ve been visiting down here I’ve 
heard your name connected with Miss Grayson’s. Now, 
I want to know if I will be trespassing on somebody else’s 
ground ? ” 

“No, indeed; not mine. Annie is the dearest little 
friend in the world. That’s all. Possibly in time there is 
no knowing but I might have been rash enough to — well 
— ah! — excuse me, there is Miss Oakley, beautiful and 
rich. Good-evening. You have my best wishes.” 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


167 


“ The consummate puppy. He is not worthy of her. 
Never mind. My name’s not Tom Howard if I don’t 
change his tune in less than six months.” 

Annie Grayson and Tom Howard’s sister were school- 
mates. A sweet, simple, country girl was Annie, never 

having been farther than the little town of P , where 

the seminary was. 

Harry Cleveland had been visiting an uncle in the 
neighborhood for a few weeks, during which time he had 
amused himself with the gentle little Annie. 

And she, poor girl, thought her heart must break when 
Harry left her to follow in the train with Miss Oakley’s 
admirers. 

Annie’s father was only a “ well-to-do farmer.” And it 
cost him a considerable effort to give his daughter a suit- 
able fit-out for a winter in town ; but Annie had grown so 
sad he was glad to let her go. Annie had not entirely 
cast Harry from her heart. Some little hope of seeing him 
and winning him back lingered still when she arrived in 
B . 

What Tom had been doing I cannot just tell, but some- 
how, to Annie’s immense surprise, the evening of her ar- 
rival she found herself surrounded by a half dozen very 
pleasant young gentlemen, each one seeming to vie with 
the other in attentions to her. Engagements for the opera, 
concert and lectures were made for her. In a few words, 
in less than a week after she reached B , Annie Gray- 

son was an acknowledged belle. No one called her a 
beauty. But one raved over her “ bronze eyes ; ” another, 
her charming naivete; a third, her sylph-like form. A ' 
artist friend of Tom’s wanted to paint her picture. 1- . 
of course, knew true beauty. That was enough. It w • 
the fashion to have De Vere paint one’s portrait; and so, 
in a few weeks, Annie Grayson’s picture was on exhibition 


168 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


in De Vere’s studio. One would hardly have credited the 
change those weeks had wrought in the simple country 
girl, and for the better too. She was not spoiled at all — 
only pleased and happy. She grew very easy and grace- 
ful in her manner. Her eyes were brighter, and laughing. 
She had gotten entirely over the wound made by Harry 
Cleveland, and was heart-whole and free for a while. Fre- 
quently she met Miss Oakley with Harry, but no longer 
she sighed for her beauty. Once or twice he had called, 
but finding Annie always with pleasant company, troubled 
himself no further. What it was that first drew so many 
admirers around Annie, Tom knew best ; but no one won- 
dered that she endeared herself to all who knew her. 

Whispers were afloat that Miss Oakley’s riches were in 
the oil regions, and after a while that no oil was there, 
consequently no riches for her. What it was I can’t say ; 

but Miss Oaldey went home to P , and Harry did not 

follow. About this time Harry’s aunt came to town, 
bringing to Annie many little remembrances from home. 

Of course Harry came with her — and somehow man- 
aged to get in the way of dropping in occasionally, much 
to the disgust of some of Annie’s more persevering suitors. 
Harry never could bear opposition. First, because he 
w^anted to run others off; and, again, because Miss Gray- 
son was “ the fashion ” then. Harry began again his love- 
making. Wooing the little rustic and wooing the calm, 
assured city belle were two different things. 

Annie laughed at him, not believing, or feigning not to 
believe, a word he said. At length — in perfect despera- 
tion — Harry sought Tom, and begged his help. 

Cleveland, months ago I came to you. I would not 
have tried to win her from you. You told me to go 
ahead, I had your best wishes. I cannot understand this 
change — ” 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


169 


“ Nor I, Tom. I only know I love her now — I do, upon 
my honor,” said Harry. 

“ Has not the little piece of fun, the report of an uncle 
in India, whose heiress she is to be, had this powerful 
effect?” Tom asked, a contemptuous smile curling his 
lips. 

“ No, no. Of course I know better than that. You re- 
member my aunt’s intimate connection with her family. 
No, Tom, I love her — I’d marry her to-day, and work for 
her cheerfully all the days of my life.” 

“And Miss Oakley — ” ^ 

“ She — ah, well I I only imagined I was in love with 
her,” Harry said, looking considerably embarrassed. 

“Well, Cleveland, I am not one of Miss Grayson’s 
suitors. If you can win her I shall not oppose you.” 

One after another of Annie’s lovers had to content them- 
selves with her friendship. Harry grew very hopeful, and 
Tom began to think his little game might not end just as 
he wished. He could resign her to any one sooner than 
to Harry Cleveland. There was one young fellow to whom 
Tom had confessed his joke concerning the India wealth. 
When he knew Annie was poorer than himself, he wooed 
her more earnestly. In every way he was worthy of 
Annie. 

Possibly, for a chance to learn the true state of her 
heart, Tom went to plead another’s cause. 

“Annie, may I speak a word for Noble? Can you not 
learn to love him ? Poor fellow ! he quite worships you,” 
Tom said, “ ajid I wish — ” 

“ I wish I was home again,” Annie said ; and, dropping 
her head, she sobbed like a grieved child. 

“ Why, Annie, how can you talk so ? What has worried 
you? Everybody loves you. You ought to be the hap- 
piest girl in the world,” Tom said, trying to soothe her. 


170 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


“I don’t want everybody to love me, and everybody 
don’t love me,” sobbed Annie. 

“ Oh, you unreasonable little girl ! Six months ago I 
found your heart almost breaking for the love of just one. 
You wanted to be beautiful for his sake. And now that 
all you wished for is yours, you are not happy. What 
more can you wish? ” 

“ I wish I’d never come to town ! I wish I just knew I 
possessed the love of one true heart. What do I want wuth 
many ? ” 

“Annie, I truly believe Harry loves j^ou, if it is about 
him you are troubled. But I would sooner give you to 
Noble—” 

She turned, with her eyes flashing. What she would 
have said was interrupted by Harry’s entrance. Tom 
left the room. A half hour after, with a heavy step, the 
young man came forth, and joining Tom on the porch, 
said : 

“ It is all over with me, Howard. I would give years 
of my life to recall the last six months. Then I might 
have won her, and now she is lost to me forever ! ” 

“ Whom does she care for, I’d like to know ? ” Tom 
asked. 

Harry shook his head sadly, and passed out a wiser 
man. Later that afternoon Tom found out. 

“ I wish I had tried to win her myself,” he said. “ I 
shall never love another so well. I wonder if her heart 
is free ? I’ve a mind to try.” 

Annie, Tom’s sister, and a little brother sat out on the 
porch watching the sunset, when the loud report of a gun 
was heard in the house. The little boy rushed in, and a 
moment after came flying back, crying : 

“ Oh, Tom is shot ! Tom is killed ! ” 

All ran in— all but Annie. Without a word she had 


ONE TRUE HEART. 


171 


fallen to the ground. Ten minutes after, when they found 
her, she was still to all appearance lifeless. 

It was so long before she opened her eyes that they had 
grown terribly anxious. 

With a wild look at last she turned from one to the 
other. Then her gaze rested on one nearest to her. With 
a glad cry she put forth her arms. 

Tom knew all^ then, and kneeling beside her said, in a 
whisper low : 

“ My darling, my own, be sure of the love of one true 
heart. Are you satisfied with mine, love? ” 

‘‘Are you hurt ? ” she asked, the warm blood returning 
to the pale face. 

“ Not the least, only upset by the shock. I would not 
have minded a considerable hurt for such a cure,” Tom 
said. 

And then, when they were alone, he asked again : 

“Are you happy now, Annie ? ” 

“ Who would not be,” she answered, “ when sure of the 
love of one true heart ? ” 


BY HIS OWN WORTH. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

UGH ASHTON was dying ; and his spirit fled before 



J — L he could sign the will providing for Eddie, his 
little adopted son, that Dr. Martin drew up at the bedside. 
This pleased Mrs. Harden, the dead man’s niece, who 
hated the little orphan. 

The last ofiices had been performed, and Hugh Ashton 
slumbered beside his kindred dead, when Dr. Martin 
sought Mrs. Harden. 

He apologized for Tiis haste to converse on the subject, 
by telling of his immediate departure for England, to 
remain for years, possibly. He had come to speak 
of Eddie — of his adopted father’s wishes and intentions, 
which were so nearly made legal. He hoped she would 
respect them, and, at any rate, do by Eddie as one of her 
own. 

Mrs. Harden acquiesced in the doctor’s suggestion with 
great cordiality, and completely disarmed any suspicions 
that dwelt in his mind relative to her feelings to Eddie. 

Bidding the child good-by, the doctor gave him his ad- 
dress, and bade him write to him, and to consider him 
always his friend, and feel that he could claim his assist- 
ance in any way, should he need it. This address Mrs. 
Harden obtained, and kept to further her wicked inten- 
tion. 


( 172 ) 


BY HIS OWN WORTH. 


173 


The doctor had scarcely cleared the shores of his adopted 
country, when poor Eddie began to feel the need of a 
friend. Mrs. Harden no longer concealed her enmity, and 
the poor boy overheard a conversation between her and 
the housekeeper that decided his future. 

“I shall return him to the asylum, his proper place. 
The idea of my supporting a pauper ! Uncle’s mind must 
have been very much affected when he took this boy to 
raise as his own,” said Mrs. Harden. 

“ But your uncle loved him dearly, madam. You might 
respect his wishes, and give the child an education. Then 
he can take care of himself. It will come very hard on 
him to go back to that place now,” said the woman, plead- 
ingly- 

“ I am decided. He goes to-morrow ! ” 

“ Oh, mamma ! please, mamma I Poor Eddie ! Uncle 
loved him so dearly! Don’t send him to that horrid 
place I ” plead a little girl, who came forward, and, catching 
her mother’s hand, looked beseechingly into her face. But 
she was sent off, with harsh words for her interference. 
And as the door closed behind the child, Eddie joined her 
in the hall, and whispered : 

“ Come with me, Lilly 1 ” 

They sought the garden, and there Eddie, after binding 
Lilly over to secrecy, told her he was going to run away 
that night. He would never return to the asylum. Lilly 
cried, and begged him not to ; but finally agreed it would 
be better so. And when Eddie gathered together a few 
things, a change of clothing, some prized books, and one 
or two remembrances of the friend he had lost, Lilly came 
and slipped on his finger a ring, saying : 

Here, Eddie I This is my own ; I can give it. Wear 
it always. I’ve put it on with a wish.” 

All was ready, and the poor boy had sobbed -out his 


174 


BY HIS OWN WORTH. 


parting words and turned away, a few steps only, when he 
ran back and said : 

“ Oh, Lilly, I have forgotten my knife — the last present 
of dear papa’s. Get it for me. I fear to go back ; I might 
be seen. You will find it in my drawer. Wrap it up and 
bring it to me, please. It is new ; I have never used it. I 
want to keep it nice. Run, Lilly ! ” 

It was late in the afternoon, almost dark ; but Lilly, after 
a little search, found the knife, and, tearing off a leaf from 
an old book which she thought of no account, wrapped up 
the knife, and soon placed it in Eddie’s hand. 

Three years before, Eddie had been taken from the 
Orphan Asylum by Mr. Ashton, and adopted as his son. 
This action had dispersed the expectations of Mr. Ashton’s 
niece, Mrs. Harden, who had always looked on her little 
daughter Lilly, who was a great pet of her uncle’s, as the 
heiress of all his great wealth. Mrs. Harden, as might be 
supposed, had no kind feeling for the boy. 

Eddie was a manly, brave-hearted little fellow, although 
only twelve years old. Visions of success filled his mind, 
and when parting from Lilly he had whispered : 

“ I’ll come back a great man, Lilly.” 

Poor child ! He dreamed not of the suffering, tempta- 
tion and sin that lurked everywhere in the world he was 
just entering. 

For some days Eddie’s courage remained firm ; but after 
his few dollars were spent in obtaining food and shelter, 
and still he had failed to find either work or Mends, he 
began to grow disheartened. When one after another of 
his little keepsakes were pawned for bread — everything 
but his one suit of clothes gone, then Eddie’s heart sank. 
Daily he would repeat his praj^er to be delivered from 
evil. He had some faint remembrance of his mother — of 
kneeling at her side, and repeating the prayer she taught 


BY HIS OWN WOBTH. 


175 


him. lie had been given a Bible, an old worn one, by 
some friend, who had told him it was his mother’s. But 
he had left that at the home that was his no longer. Some- 
times he wished he had brought that with him. 

“ It might have helped me keep from sin,” he said. 

Six months had rolled away. No one would have recog- 
nized the pale, emaciated, miserably clad boy, as the hand- 
some, bright-eyed Eddie of Ashton Grange. The winter 
days were growing terribly cold. Nearly forty-eight hours 
had passed then without food, and he had nothing to get 
it with. Lilly’s ring had been carried to a jeweller’s store 
and sold for fifty cents, the week previous. The purchaser 
was a kind-hearted man, and promised he would let him 
have it back, whenever he came for it. It was an awfully 
bitter night, and Eddie had sought a refuge in the depot, 
and hovered, shivering, near the stove, trying to hide from 
sight, fearful of being turned out. A while longer, and he 
had grown quite warm — but oh, so hungry! He must 
have bread — bread, or die I 

A step was heard, and in an instant more a man entered 
and looked around, while Eddie drew closer in his hiding 
place. Moments passed on, and the poor boy’s hunger 
grew more terrible. A groan escaped him. Starting for- 
ward, the man’s keen eyes soon found him, and he drew 
forth the little sufferer and asked: 

“ Hallo I what’s the trouble ? ” 

“ Bread I for God’s sake, sir ! ” moaned fhe boy. 

Oh 1 that’s it,” the man said, eying the trembling boy 
closely. 

“ Bread ! a little piece ; and I’ll work for you, do anything 
to pay you ! ” 

A quick, pleased expression came into the man’s eyes, 
and he said : 

“ Wait here. I’ll give you bread in a few moments.” 


176 


BY HIS OWIt- WORTH. 


He went hastily out. Soon he returned, bringing with 
him bread, meat and a tin cup of coffee. 

Eddie clutched wildly the food, and after having satisfied 
his terrible hunger, he turned to the man and said : 

‘‘ I think you have saved my life, sir. Now, how can I 
thank you ? ” 

The stranger told him that henceforth he should know 
no more suffering. He should be his son, in place of the 
one he had lost. He looked so sad, and was so kind, the 
child’s confidence was soon won. And in a short time 
they were pledged to each other as father and son. 

But after only a few days, Eddie grew uneasy. He did 
not like the appearance of things. His home Tvas very 
different from what he had expected. Miserable-looking 
men, who were in the house all day, and out all night, 
were the associates of the man — Mr. Mandeville, he said 
was his name. And to explain his manner of living, he 
told Eddie he was a detective, hunting out a great case, 
which, if he succeeded, would make his fortune. Then he 
said that Eddie could do his part. 

He carried the poor boy to a spacious and elegant house, 
and told him that he must go there with some flowers, and 
white he was waiting in the hall for the lady for whom the 
flowers were intended, he must get the impression of the 
lock. On and on the tempter went. Not content with his 
own villany — forgetting or disregarding the remembrance 
of his own days of innocence — he strove to drag down to 
perdition the poor boy. But Eddie was bright enough to 
see through the ruse then. He said he could not, and 
stuck to it — resisting alike bribery and threats — until at 
length he was tried by hunger again. Worn to emaciation 
— so weak that he had no longer strength to resist — he 
yielded, saying to himself : 

“ What matters it now how I die ? If I am detected I 
shall be put in prison. That is better than my present 


BY II IS OWN WORTH. 


177 


life. There are no friends on earth for me. And when I 
die — ” Here a dreadful thought came to him : “ To die in 
such sin as he was contemplating then ! ’’ 

The tears gathered in his eyes, and trickled down his pa]e 
cheeks. He put his hand in his pocket to find his apology 
for a handkerchief. He had been provided with an over- 
coat, which covered his ragged suit. In vain he hunted 
the pockets ; nothing could he find. So at length he tore 
out one of his tattered jacket pockets to answer his purpose. 
As he drew it forth, a little roll of crumpled paper fell to 
the ground. He stooped, picked it up, and smoothing it out, 
found it was the title-page and blank leaf of a small Bible. 

The boy’s eyes grew larger. Earnestly he gazed on the 
leaf, on which was written a few lines. The muscles of his 
face began to twitch, and his bosom to heave convulsively, 
as he read the magic writing : 

“ To Eddie, from mother. I shall watch and pray for your 
coming ! Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth.” 

He had reached the house where he had been directed. 
Sinking down on the carriage step, he re-read the message 
w^hich had just reached him from his angel mother. 

A fearful struggle was raging in Eddie’s breast. Should 
j he resist the evil ? Suffer the torture of hunger, die and 
go to his mother ? Oh! it was a terrible death I Or should 
he fulfil his promise, get rich, and go back to Lilly ? Yes ; 
he must live ! “ Live by sin ? ” conscience whispered.- 
He tried to pray for guidance, but, poor boy ! he was so 
weak and weary he could scarcely hold up his hands in 
supplication. And the words of his prayers he could not 
recall. Only again and again the cry, “ Lord, help me I ” 
escaped his lips, as he sank down and dropped his head 
on the hard, cold stone. A minute, five perhaps, passed, 
and then his head was raised, a holy light beamed in his 
eye, and he said : 

11 


178 


BY HIS OWN WOBTH. 


“ I can die, but I will not sin ! Mother, mother, help me I ” 

Just then he saw, a short way off, his tempter coming. 

He rose up, and tried to run. Only a few steps were 
gained, when he fell into the outstretched arms of a kind 
motherly -looking woman. 

“ Mother, save me ! ” he cried, scarce conscious of what 
he was saying, and fainted. 

The cry, the words, found a response in the woman’s heart. 

“Thank you, madam, for your kindness, but I will 
relieve you of my son,” said the tempter, with a pleasant 
smile and a courteous bow, as he came forward. 

But the woman was a shrewd, quick-witted one, and 
looking keenly at the man, she said : 

“ I am not sure he is your son. May be he is, may be 
not I Come on to the station and prove property, and then 
take it. He is afraid of you, sure.” 

Now the “ station ” was just the place the man was not 
anxious to appear anywhere near : so muttering something 
about “ taking other means,” he moved quickly off. 

Saved ! saved ! Yes, the Heavenly Mariner had moored 
the little sorrow-tossed bark in a safe harbor. Hester 
Foster’s home was one of peace and plenty. And there 
she bore the starving boy. 

When he was strong and well enough, Hester let him 
tell her all of his story — his past, and the life which she 
rescued him from. She wept over his trials, and the won- 
derful way he was saved from crime. 

“Oh! how came that leaf from mother’s Bible in my 
pocket? Sometimes I think the angels must have slipped 
it there. My Bible is home— I mean, where I once called 
home 1 ” 

“Angel! Yes, it was that little Lilly you’ve talked so 
much about. She, the blessed child, must have wrapped 
your knife in that leaf. Child! child! God is good I How 


BY HIS OWN WOBTH. 


179 


wonderful are His ways! Your salvation was through 
that little Lilly’s hands I ” said the quick-thoughted Mrs. 
Foster, after she knew all. And so it was Lilly’s thinking 
the old book of no account, that Eddie’s mother’s dying 
prayer was brought to him at the needed time. 

One year more, and Mrs. Foster went in, from her 
country home, to the great city. And with her Eddie, to 
get back Lilly’s ring. 

The jeweller was true to his word ; the ring was waiting 
for him. But the good man told him he would have to 
detain him until he sent for a gentleman who was very 
anxious to find the boy who owned that ring. He told 
Eddie he had nothing to fear. The gentleman was a friend, 
he knew. But the poor boy was uneasy until, after a half 
hour had elapsed, the messenger returned, and with him 
Doctor Martin I 

Oh, what a joyous meeting it was! He told Eddie he 
had recognized the ring, as one he had given Lilly. He 
knew all Mrs. tiarden’s cruelty, and for months had been 
seeking to find Eddie. 

The good doctor would have taken him home then, as 
his own son, but Mrs. Foster plead so hard to keep him, 
that it was agreed that Eddie should return with her, and 
attend a very good school near by. 

For five years it was so. Then Doctor Martin took him 
under his own charge. And in five more years the doctor 
had an assistant, who was likely soon to supplant him in 
the favor of all his patients. 

All these years dear little Lilly had thought of her play- 
mate, and wondered why he never came. Many tears she 
wept for him. 

Misfortune seemed to have devoted herself, with con- 
tinual and never failing attention, to Mrs. Harden. Losses 
by fire, banks failing, and worst of all, her son’s vices had 
reduced her to real poverty. Their beautiful home had 


180 


BY HIS OWN WORTH. 


long since been sold, and everything else was gone. Lilly, 
who was then eighteen, supported herself and mother by 
giving music lessons. Verily “ the way of the transgressor 
is hard,” and Mrs. Harden felt it, and in agony groaned 
over her misfortunes. 

Lilly confidently believed Eddie would return some 
day; and so he did. When the “old homestead” was 
again for sale. Doctor Edwin Worth was the purchaser. 

“ Back again ! I knew you would come ! ” exclaimed 
Lilly, when Eddie had clasped her to his heart. “ When 
I put my ring on your finger, that was the wish, and has 
been my prayer ever since.” 

“ My guardian angel! I have come back for your love, 
Lilly ! ” 

Then he told her of his trials, his temptations, and 
miraculous escape. 

“ Now, my Lilly, will you not put your hand in mine, 
and promise to go with me, back to our childhood’s home ? 
Mine now — not willed, but won 1 ” 

“ By Worthy truly ! ” Lilly said, with a merry little laugh, 
which immediately gave place to a sad expression, and she 
whispered : 

“ But mother — ” 

“Is forgiven — freely, fully. Our home shall be hers. 
And now, darling, with your dear hand clasped in mine, 
I am glad it was as it was. Deeply I feel it was for the 
best ; for now I can truly sympathize with such as I was 
once. I will give thanks to God for His mercy, by works 
of kindness to his needy and erring ones. Our united 
efforts will be in this cause, my Lilly, and we have a wide 
field of action.” 

“We will enter it, Eddie, feeling confident that victory 
will crown the efforts of all whose work is for the love of 
God and his fellow-man I ” 


A LITERARY WIFE 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

~\ noon and night — all the time reading 

-LVJ- and idling about ! What a shameful, yes, wicked 
waste of time ! Oh, I declare, I shall not be surprised if, 
one of these nights, the ghost of some one, or every one, of 
my industrious, hard-working ancestors came to warn me of 
my danger. Oh, I must get over this indeed! Such a 
wife would ruin any man less than a millionnaire. Thank 
Heaven, I have not committed myself ; but there is no 
denying I do like Louise Hobart better than any girl I 
ever knew. And I think she is really charming. But I’ve 
seen what a terrible misfortune a lazy wife is to a man, in 
our own family. Jack’s wife has pretty near ruined him. 
Well, I’m glad I can get over this ; but it will come kind 
of hard ; I’ve spent the evenings so pleasantly with Louise. 
How well she does talk I Any man might be proud of 
her. But talking won’t make the pot boil. And a poor 
Government clerk might need a wife who could help not 
only to make his pot boil, but to put something in it too.” 

Just here Charley Fulton’s thoughts and steps were 
arrested by some one catching hold of him, and exclaim- 
ing: 

“ Stop ! Hold on, Fulton ! What’s up ? You are going 
ahead at such a mad rate, I could hardly catch up to you. 
Are you trying to escape the Evil One ? ” 


( 181 ) 


182 


A LITERARY WIFE. 


May be I am,” returned Charley, with more meaning j 
in his words than his friend Ned Wilmer knew. “ I did ! 
not know I was travelling so fast, however.” 

“ Yes, I saw you when you came out of Mr. Hobart’s. 
Rather an early call, Charley ? ” his friend said, inquir- 
ingly. 

“Yes; I only called to invite Louise to the concert to- 
night, but she is engaged — ” 

“Yes, old fellow, I was before you this time,” Ned said, 
smiling pleasantly ; then putting his arm through Charley’s, 
he added : “ I have wanted an opportunity to talk to you, 
Fulton. We have so long been friends, I should regret 
very much that anything should interrupt our kindly 
intercourse.” 

“ Why, what do 5mu mean ? I can imagine no cause — ” 

“ Charley, yes. You like Louise Hobart, I believe ? ” 

“ Yes, very much.” 

“And so do I. More than this, I shall win her, if possi- 
ble,” Ned Wilmer said, looking at his friend as though he 
expected and was prepared for some fierce demonstration. 

“All right ! Go ahead. My dear boy, I shall not feel 
any the less kindly if you succeed. Indeed you have my 
best wishes for your success,” Charley answered, extending 
his hand. 

“ What I you are not really in earnest ? Surely, you 
must have felt differently, or why have you been such a 
constant visitor there? ” Ned Wilmer asked. 

“ I’ll tell you just what I was telling myself when you 
came up. I do like Louise very much. She is really 
charming. But, Ned, she is not the girl for either you or 
me. You know how very idle, yes, and wasteful she is. 
Think how much time, yes, and money too, is lost so. 
Poor clerks should choose girls who will hel-p them, not be 
a burden such as I fear Louise will prove. Now you 


A LITERAEY WIFE. 183 

know just what it is that makes me so calm at the pros- 
pect of another winning her.” 

“ You are wise, perhaps. I know Louise’s failing — I 
suppose we must call it — but I can’t resist the love which 
increases every hour I am with her. If I can win her I 
shall. So let me have the coast clear, and I will thank 
you.” 

“ Oh, come, don’t banish me so suddenly. Let me drop in 
occasionally. I cannot resign the pleasure of her society en- 
tirely just yet. I must come to it gradually. I declare I 
would sooner listen to Louise’s talk than go to any opera, 
theatre or lecture ; yes, or eat the best dinner that ever was 
cooked. But you know, Ned, that gift is not going to make 
a home comfortable or happy.” 

I only know that I love her,” answered Ned. 

Just at that moment Charley raised his hat to a lady 
passing, remarking, w^hen she was out of hearing : 

“ That girl, I am sure, will make the man happy who 
may be so fortunate as to win her. At school she was the 
most industrious little body I ever saw. Even during the 
recreation hours she was always working at something. 
She is just my idea of what a woman should be.” 

“ Well, I wonder you have not tried to win the prize,” 
Ned Wilmer said. 

“ I believe I should, but for-— What shall I say? Not 
the superior attractions of another— nor the brilliancy. 
But all is not gold that glitters, you know. Well, we part 
here. Good-morning.” 

Ned Wilmer’s heart was lighter than for many months. 
He had greatly feared Charley Fulton would win the girl 
he loved. And now that he had good hope of securing 
the one, and retaining the friendship of the other, he was 
in a very happy state of mind. 

That night Charley called on Annie Warner, the young 
girl of whom he had spoken so highly that morning. 


184 


A LITERARY WIFE. 


Although he found other company, Annie’s fingers were 
as busy as her tongue ; indeed, more so : the latter often 
rested, the former never, even when entertaining friends. 

Never were girls more dissimilar than Louise Hobart 
and Annie Warner : the one brilliant, sparkling, and really 
gifted ; but — well, of her failings, as the young men agreed 
to term them, enough has been said. 

Well assured was Charley Fulton that from such, Annie, 
gentle, sweet little Annie Warner was free. No one ever 
found her idling her time over old books, or new ones. 
She was the tidiest little housekeeper; could make the 
best bread, nicest and lightest pies, puddings and cakes ; 
was the most skilful seamstress — in fact, knew everything 
except what Charley thought was perfectly useless, and 
he said : 

“ What is the good of a woman knowing all about every 
book and its author, from the very first that was ever 
written to those of the present time? I truly believe 
Louise Hobart does. If a man wants a history, biography, 
or encyclopaedia, he can buy them — not get a wife that is 
a combination of all. I pity poor Ned I ” 

During the evening a circumstance occurred which 
really decided Charley’s future. 

Annie’s father came in, bringing a box wrapped and 
securely tied. Handing it to Annie, he said : 

^‘A present for you, daughter.” 

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she thanked him 
and began to untie the cord. The knots were stubborn, 
resisting her efforts. 

Charley pulled out his knife, and her brother said : 

“ Oh, cut it, Annie. We are all eager for a look.” 

“ So am I,” she answered. “ But it will be too bad to 
waste such a nice string ; it will do to use again.” 

After at least five minutes spent in picking and pulling, 


A LITERARY WIFE. 


185 


the knots loosened. Annie wound up the cord, secured 
the end, and laid it aside. Then the paper was taken off 
and nicely folded, for future use, too, before Annie opened 
the box. 

“ That girl is the one for me. No fear of her proving 
other than a helpmate,” Charley said, gazing with admira- 
tion on Annie, who drew from the box a beautiful seal- 
skin muff and tippet. 

As Charley’s mind reverted again to this incident, 
another was remembered which proved conclusively to 
his mind the wasteful disposition of Louise. 

One evening, a few weeks previous, while Charley and 
Ned Wilmer sat listening to a poem Louise was reading, 
a playful kitten found its way into her work-basket, and 
was not discovered until half a dozen skeins of silk and as 
many spools of cotton were dragged about the floor, and 
in such a condition that it would have taken some skill 
and a great deal of patience to untangle the threads. 

Louise looked at the mass a moment, then, clipping 
away the spools, threw the snarled bunches into the Are, 
saying: 

“ Pshaw ! I could read half a dozen chapters, or spend 
the time in thinking, which is next best to reading, that 
it would take to untangle that. I won’t waste so many 
precious moments.” 

Inwardly Charley congratulated himself on his escape. 

After one or two more visits to Louise, which strength- 
ened his belief that she would make poor Ned rue the day 
he married her, if he should do so, Charley devoted him- 
self earnestly to his wooing; Ned Wilmer doing likewise. 

At the end of six months both were married to the girls 
of their choice. Calls were exchanged between the brides, 
and occasionally, at long intervals, after. But as there was 
but little congeniality, there could be no intimacy. 


186 


A LITEKARY WIFE. 


Ned Wilmer was very warmly attached to his friend, 
and would drop in for an hour in the evening, two or 
three times a year. Thus four years were passed. 

Ned Wilmer came in one evening, and after watching 
Louise, who as usual was absorbed in a book, said : 

“ I’m just from Fulton’s.” 

Indeed ! ” Louise said, closing her book, and asking. 

How are they ? Is Mrs. Fulton just such an industrious 
little body as ever ? Come, tell me all about them. I see 
from your eyes you have lots of news.” 

^‘No, not much news. I found them well, and Mrs. 
Fulton busily engaged with a new sewing machine. I 
wonder you have not wanted one, Louise. Charley is very 
anxious I should purchase one for you.” 

I don’t want it. I detest them. I don’t care a snap 
for ruffles, tucks, puffs, and such fixings, for myself ; and 
I’m not going to get the children up in that stjde. I want 
to cultivate their taste for something higher than the latest 
fashions — ” 

‘‘ But I should think it would be a source of amuse- 
ment,” interrupted Ned. 

No, indeed, I’m not going to spend my leisure hours 
over a sewing machine. After the necessary work is done, 
your wants and the children’s attended to, you know — I 
always have near me the best amusement in the world, I 
think,” Louise answered, holding up her book. 

‘‘Yes, dear, I know. But what does your reading profit 
your family ? ” 

Louise’s face flushed quickly, and her husband has- 
tened to add : 

“I am perfectly satisfied, dear. You do all I care to 
have you, as long as I keep my office and good health. 
But both are uncertain. Now Charley tells me his wife 
makes sufficient to dress herself and the children by her 


jl literary wife. 


187 


machine — stitching for a few friends. She can easily 
make twenty dollars a month just by working a few 
hours in the evening.” 

Louise’s lip curled as she repeated : 

^‘Twenty dollars! Working away health and strength 
that should be saved for her children’s sake, for twenty 
dollars a month 1 ” 

“ Louise, I would not consent to have you do so. But, 
dear, suppose Charley and I both should lose our offices, 
which family would likely suffer the least ? ” 

“ I don’t know anything about what Charley Fulton’s 
family would do; but I do know yours would not suffer for 
anything.” 

“ How could it be otherwise ? ” Ned asked. 

I would not let either you or yours,” Louise answered, 
her face glowing brightly. 

“Low, child! What could you do, except to love us 
with your whole heart, and read and talk? Oh, if either 
of those would pay, wouldn’t we be rich, love?” Ned said, 
raising her face and kissing the pouting lips. 

“ Yes, good reading does pay, just as well as good feed- 
ing. It has improved my mind, and I can write books 
myself,” Louise answered, with sparkling eyes. 

“You write, Louise! Well, perhaps you might, if you 
would try — ” 

“ Might ! ” she said, interrupting him. “ I have written 
stories, and they have been published, and paid for, too. 
I have never told you this, because I know many gentle- 
men have a horror of literary women. Since my marriage 
my time has been devoted to you and our little ones. I 
have seen no necessity for my using this gift or talent, 
therefore have husbanded my strength for use when the 
time comes. Now, sir, if the test comes, you shall see if 
you have such a good-for-nothing wife.” 


188 


A LITEEARY WIFE. 


Ned was too surprised to say anything for a few mo- 
ments ; but he did look at his wife, and with admiration 
quite sufficient to satisfy her. 

It was not long before the test came. Charley lost his 
position by a change in the administration; and Ned Wil- 
mer, after an attack of pneumonia, was left with a bron- 
chial affection, which was considered so serious that his 
physician insisted he should go to Florida. 

Then Louise went to work — then her husband and the 
world knew what she could do. 

After the leave granted him by the department expired 
Louise insisted upon his resigning and remaining South. 
In a few months she went with the children to join him, 
and stayed for two years, until Ned was fully restored to 
his usual good health. 

Bravely Charley Fulton’s wife worked, too, doing no less 
than her husband had believed she could and would. But 
Louise! Charley Fulton could scarcely credit his eyes 
and ears. To do him justice, he would not have ex- 
changed his own devoted and loving little wife for any 
other woman; yet he could not help the thought fre- 
quently entering his mind, when he so often heard 
Louise’s praises, “ Was he wise ? ” 


EDNA’S SACRIFICE. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

T was a cold night in September. For three days the 



J- rain had fallen almost unceasingly. It had been im- 
possible for us to get out ; and no visitors had been in. 
Everything looked dreary enough, and we felt so, truly. 
Of course the stoves were not prepared for use ; and this 
night we (that is, Nell, Floy, Aunt Edna, and m3^self ) were 
huddled in the corners of the sofa and arm-chairs, wrapped 
in our shawls. We were at our wits’ end for something to 
while the hours away. We had read everything that was 
readable ; played until we fancied the piano sent forth a 
wail of complaint, and begged for rest ; were at the back- 
gammon board until our arms ached; and I had given 
imitations of celebrated actresses, until I was hoarse, and 
Nell declared I was in danger of being sued for scandal. 
What more could we do? To dispel the drowsiness that 
was stealing over me, I got up, walked up and down the 
floor, and then drew up the blind, and gazed out into the 
deserted street. Not a footfall to be heard, neither man’s 
nor beast’s; nothing but patter, patter, patter. At length, 
after standing fully fifteen minutes — oh, joyful sound ! — a 
coming footstep, firm and quick. My first thought was 
that those steps would stop at our door. But, directly after, 
I felt that very improbable, for who was there that would 
come such a night? Papa was up north with mamma; 


190 


Edna’s sacrifice. 


Nell and Floy were visiting Aunt Edna and me, the only 
ones home, save the servants. Neither of us had as yet a 
lover so devoted or so demented as to come out, if he had 
anywhere to stay in. 

On and p»st went the steps. Turning away, I drew 
down the blind, and said: “Some one must be ill, and 
that was the doctor, surely : for no one else would go out, 
only those from direst necessity sent.” 

A deep sigh escaped Aunt Edna’s lips, and although 
partially shaded by her hand, I could see the shadow on 
the beautiful face had deepened. 

Why my aunt had never married was a mystery to me, 
for she was lovable in every way, and must have been very 
beautiful in her youth. Thirty-six she would be next 
May-day, she had told me. Thirty-six seemed to me, just 
sixteen, a very great many years to have lived. But aunt 
always was young to us ; and the hint of her being an old 
maid was always resented, very decidedly, by all her nieces. 

“Aunt Edna,” I said, “tell us a story — a love-story, 
please.” 

“ Oh, little one, you have read so many ! And what can 
I tell you more ? ” she answered, gentl}^ 

“Oh, aunty, I want a true story! Do, darling aunty, 
tell us your own. Tell us why you are blessing our home 
with your presence, instead of that of some noble man, for 
noble he must have been to have won your heart, and — 
hush-sh! Yes, yes; I know something about somebody, 
and I must know all. Do, please ! ” 

I plead on. I always could do more with Aunt Edna 
than any one else. I was named for her, and many called 
me like her — “ only not nearly so pretty ’’ was always 
added. 

At last she consented, saying : 

“ Dear girls, to only one before have I given my entire 


Edna's sacrifice. 


191 


confidence, and that was my mother. I scarce know why 
I have yielded to your persuasions, little Edna, save that 
this night, with its gloom and rain, carries me back long 
years, and my heart seems to join its pleading with yours, 
yearning to cast forth some of its fulness, and perchance 
find relief by pouring into your loving heart its own 
sorrows. But, darling, I would not cast my shadow over 
your fair brow, even for a brief time.” 

With her hand still shading her face, Aunt Edna began : 

“Just such a night as this, eighteen years ago, clear 
child, my fate was decided. The daughter of my mother’s 
dearest friend had been with us about a year. Dearly we 
all loved the gentle child, for scarcely more than child she 
was — only sixteen. My mother had taken her from the 
cold, lifeless form of her mother into her own warm, loving 
heart, and she became to me as a sister. So fair and frail 
she was! We all watched her with the tenderest care, 
guarding her from all that could chill her sensitive nature 
or wound the already saddened heart. Lilly was her name. 
Oh, what a delicate white lily she was when we first brought 
her to our home; but after a while she was won from her 
sorrow, and grew into a maiden of great beauty. Still, 
with child-like, winning ways. 

“ Great wells of love were in her blue eyes — violet hue 
he called them. Often I wondered if any one’s gaze would 
linger on my dark eyes when hers were near? Her pale 
golden hair was pushed off her broad forehead and fell in 
heavy waves far down below her graceful shoulders and 
over her black dress. Small delicately-formed features, a 
complexion so fair and clear that it seemed transparent. 
In her blue eyes there was always such a sad, wistful look ; 
this, and the gentle smile that ever hovered about her lips, 
gave an expression of mingled sweetness and sorrow that 
was very touching. You may imagine now how beautiful 
she was. 


192 


EDNA^S SACEIFICE. 


Her mother had passed from earth during the absence 
of Lilly’s father. Across the ocean the sorrowful tidings 
were born to him. He was a naval officer. Lilly was 
counting the days ere she should see him. The good news 
had come, that soon he would be wdth her. At last the 
day arrived, but oh! what a terrible sorrow it brought. 
When her heart was almost bursting with joy, expecting 
every moment to be clasped in those dear arms — a tele- 
graphic despatch was handed in. Eagerly she caught it, 
tore it open, read — and fell lifeless to the floor. 

“Oh I the fearful, crushing words. W e read, not of his 
coming to Lilly,!)^ of his going to her, his wife, in heaven. 
Yes, truly an orphan the poor girl was then. 

“ In vain proved all efforts to restore her to conscious- 
ness. Several times, when she had before fainted, mother 
was the only physician needed. But that night she shook 
her head and said : 

“ ‘We must have a doctor, and quickly.’ 

“ It was a terrible night. Our doctor was very remote. 
Your father suggested another, near by. 

“ Dr. , well, never mind his name. Your father said 

he had lately known him, and liked him much. 

> “ Through the storm he came, and by his skilful treat- 
ment Lilly was soon restored to consciousness, but not to 
health. A low nervous fever set in, and many days we 
watched with fearful . hearts. Ah! during those days I 
learned to look too eagerly for the doctor’s coming. In- 
deed, he made his way into the hearts of all in our home. 
After the dreaded crisis had passed, and we knew that 
Lilly would be spared to us, the doctor told mother he 
should have to prescribe for me. I had grown pale, from 
confinement in the sick-room, and he must take me for a 
drive, that the fresh air should bring the roses back to my 
cheeks. Willingly mother consented. After that I often 


EDNA^S SACRIFICE. 


193 


went. When Lilly was able to come down-stairs, this 
greatest pleasure of my life then was divided with her. 
One afternoon I stood on the porch with her, waiting while 
the doctor arranged something about the harness. 

Oh ! how I wish it was my time to go ! ’ she whis- 
pered. 

^“Well, darling, it shall be your time. I can go to- 
morrow. Run, get your hat and wraps,’ I said, really glad 
to give any additional pleasure to this child of many 
sorrows. 

“ ‘ No, no, that would not be fair. And, Edna, don’t you 
know that to-morrow I would’ be so sorry if I went to-day ? 
I do not mean to be selfish, but, oh, indeed I cannot help 
it ! I am wishing every time to go. Not that I care for a 
ride — ” She hesitated, flushed, and whispered : ‘ I like to 
be with my doctor. Don’t you, Edna ? Oh ! I wish he 
was my father, or brother, or cousin— just to be with us all 
the time, you know.’ 

“Just then the doctor came for me, and I had to leave 
her. As we drove oflf I looked back and kissed my hand 
to her, saying : 

“ ‘ Dear little thing ! I wish she was going with us.’ 

“ ‘ I do not,’ the doctor surprised me by saying. 

“ I raised my eyes inquiringly to his. In those beautiful, 
earnest eyes I saw something that made me profoundly 
happy. I could not speak. After a moment he added : 

“‘She is a beautiful, winning child, and I enjoy her 
company. But when with her, I feel as if it was my duty 
to devote myself entirely to her — in a word, to take care of 
her, or, I should say, to care for her only. And this after- 
noon, of all others, I do not feel like having Lilly with 
us.’ 

“That afternoon was one of the happiest of my life. 
Although not a word of love passed his lips, I knew it 
12 


194 


Edna’s sacrifice. 


filled his heart, and was for me. He told me of his home, 
his relatives, his past life. Of his mother he said : 

“ ‘ When you know her, you will love her dearly.’ 

“ He seemed to be sure that I should know her. And 
then — ah, well, I thought so too, then. 

“ Lilly was waiting for us when we returned. He chided 
her for being out so late. It was quite dark. Tears filled 
her eyes as she raised them to his and said : 

Don’t be angry. I could not help watching. Oh, 
why did you stay so long ? I thought you w^ould never 
come back. I was afraid something had happened — that 
the horse had run away, or — ’ 

“‘Angry I could not be with you, little one. But I 
don’t want you to get sick again. Come, now, smile away 
your tears and fears ! Your friend is safe and with you 
again,’ the doctor answered. 

Taking her hand, he led her into the parlor. 

“ He had not understood the cause of her tears. Only 
for him she watched and wept. 

“ ‘Do stay,’ she plead, when her doctor was going. 

“ He told her he could not, then ; there was another call 
he must make, but would return after a while. 

“ She counted the minutes, until she should see him 
again. Never concealing from any of us how dearly she 
loved him. She was truly as guileless as a child of six 
years. 

“ From the first of her acquaintance with him, she had 
declared ‘her doctor’ was like her father. Mother, too, 
admitted the resemblance was very decided. 

“ This it was, I think, that first made him so dear to her. 

“ Several times, after the doctor returned that evening, 
I saw he sought opportunity to speak to me, unheard by 
others. But Lilly was always near. 

“Ah ! it was better so. Better that from his own lips I 


EDNA'S SACRIFICE. 


195 


heard not those words he would have spoken. Doubly 
hard would have been the trial. Oh, that night when he said, 
‘ good-by ! ’ He slipped in my hand a little roll of paper. 
As Lilly still stood at the window, watching as long as she 
could see him, I stole away to open the paper. Then, for 
a while, I forgot Lilly, aye, forgot everything, in my great 
happiness. He loved me! On my finger sparkled the 
beautiful diamond — my engagement ring — to be worn on 
the morrow, ‘ if I could return his love,’ he said. 

“ Quickly I hid my treasures away, his note, and the 
ring — Lilly was coming. 

“ She was not yet strong, and soon tired. I helped her 
to get off her clothes, and as she kissed me good-night, she 
said : 

“ ‘ I wish we had a picture of him — don’t you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Who, dear ? ’ I asked. 

“‘My doctor! Who else? You tease. You well 
enough,’ she answered, as she nestled her pretty head 
closer to mine. 

“ Soon she was sleeping and dreaming of him. Sweet 
dreams at first I knew they were ; for soft smiles flitted 
over her face. 

“ I could not sleep. A great fear stole in upon my hap- 
piness. Did not Lilly love him too ? How would she re- 
ceive the news which soon must reach her? Was her love 
such as mine ? Such as is given to but one alone ? Or 
only as a brother did she love him? I must know how it 
was. Heaven grant that joy for one would not bring sor- 
row to the other, I prayed. I had not long to wait. Her 
dreams became troubled. Her lips quivered and trembled, 
and then with a cry of agony she started up. 

“ ‘ Gone, gone, gone ! ” she sobbed. 

“ It was many minutes ere I succeeded in calming and 
making her understand ’twas but a dream. 


196 


EDNA'S SACRIFICE. 


^ Oh ! but so real, so dreadfully real. I thought he did 
not care for me. That he had gone and left me, and they 
told me he was married ! ’ 

“ Telling this, she began to sob again. 

‘‘ ‘ Lilly, dear, tell me truly — tell your sister, your very 
best friend — how it is you love your doctor ? ’ I asked. 

“^How?’ she returned. ^Oh, Edna, more than all the 
world ! He is all that I have lost and more ; and if he 
should die, dr I should lose him, I would not wish to live. 
I could not live. He loves me a little, does he not, Edna?’ 

“I could not reply. Just then there was a terrible 
struggle going on in my heart. That must be ended, the 
victory won ere I could sj^eak. She waited for my answer 
and then said, eagerl}^ : 

“ ‘ Oh, speak, do ! What are you thinking about? ’ 

“ Pressing back the sigh — back and far down into the 
poor heart — I gave her the sweet, and kept the bitter part, 
when I could answer. 

“‘Yes, dear, I do think he loves you a little now, and 
will, by-and-by, love you dearly. God grant he may ! ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, you darling Edna ! You have made me so happy ! ’ 
she cried, kissing me; and still caressing me she fell 
asleep. 

“ Next morning I enclosed the ring, with only these 
words : 

“‘Forgive if I cause you sorrow, and believe me your 
true friend. I return the ring that I am not free to ac- 
cept.’ 

“ I intended that my reply should mislead him, when I 
wrote that I was not free, and thus to crush any hope that 
might linger in his heart. While at breakfast that morn- 
ing, we received a telegram that grandma was extremely 
ill, and wanted me. Thus, fate seemed to forward my 


EDNA^S SACRIFICE. 


197 


plans. I had thought to go away for a while. I told 
mother all. How her dear heart ached for me! Yet she 
dared not say aught against my decision. She took charge 
of the note for the doctor, and by noon I was on my jour- 
ney. Two years passed ere I returned home. Mother 
wrote me but little news of either Lilly or her doctor after 
the first letter, telling that my note was a severe shock and 
great disappointment. Three or four months elapsed 
before grandma was strong enough for me to leave her. 
An opportunity at that time presented for my going to 
Europe. I wanted such an entire change, and gladly ac- 
cepted. Frequently came letters from Lilly. For many 
months they were filled with doubts and anxiety; but 
after a while came happier and shorter ones. Ah, she 
had only time to be with him, and to think in his absence 
of his coming again. 

“ When I was beginning to tire of all the wonders and 
grandeur of the old world, and nothing would still the 
longing for home, the tidings came they were married, 
Lilly and her doctor, and gone to his Western home to take 
charge of the patients of his uncle, who had retired from 
practice. Then I hastened back, and ever since, dear girls, 
I have been contented, finding much happiness in trying 
to contribute to that of those so dear. Now, little Edna, 
you have my only love-story, its beginning and ending.” 

“ But, aunty, do tell me his name,” I said. “ Indeed, it 
is not merely idle curiosity. I just‘ feel as if I must know 
it — that it is for something very important. Now you 
need not smile. I’m very earnest, and I shall not sleep 
until I know. I really felt a presentiment that if I knew 
his name it might in some way effect the conclusion of the 
story.” 

“ Well, my child, I may as well tell you. Dr. Graham 

^as— Percy Graham,” Aunt Edna answered, low. 


198 


Edna’s sacrifice. 


“ Ah! did I not tell you? It was not curiosity. Listen, 
aunty mine. While you were away last winter, papa re- 
ceived a paper from St. Louis ; he handed it to me, pointing 
to an announcement. But I will run get it. He told me 
to show it to you, and I forgot. I did not dream of all 
this.” 

From my scrap-book I brought the slip, and Aunt Edna 
read: 

“ Died. — Suddenly, of heart disease, on the morning of 
the 15th, Lilly, wife of Doctor Percy Graham, in the 34th 
year of her age.” 

Aunt Edna remained holding the paper, without speak- 
ing, for some minutes ; then, handing it back to me, she 
said, softly, as if talking to her friend : 

“Dear Lilly 1 Thank heaven, I gave to you the best I 
had to give, and caused you nought but happiness. God 
is merciful I Had he been taken, and you left, how could 
we have comforted you ? ” And then, turning to me, she 
said : “ Nearly a year it is since Lilly went to heaven. ’Tis 
strange I have not heard of this.” 

“ ’Tis strange from him you have not heard,” I thought ; 
“ and stranger still ’twill be if he comes not when the year 
is over. For surely he must know that you are free — ” 
But I kept my thoughts, and soon after kissed aunty good- 
night. 

One month passed, and the year was out. And some- 
body was in our parlor, making arrangements to carry 
away Aunt Edna. I knew it was he, when he met me at 
the hall door, and said : 

“ Edna — Miss Linden ! can it be ? ” 

“Yes and no, sir— both— Edna Linden; but. Doctor 
Graham, not your Edna. You will find her in the parlor,” 
I answered, saucily, glad and sorry, both, at his coming. 


EDNA'S SACRIFICE. 


199 


Ah, she welcomed him with profound joy, I know. He 
knew all ; papa had told him. And if he loved the beauti- 
ful girl, he then worshipped that noble woman. 

“ Thank God ! Mine at last ! ” I heard him say, with 
fervent joy, as I passed the door, an hour after. 

How beautiful she was, when, a few weeks after, she 
became his very own. I stood beside her and drew off 
her glove. How happy he looked as he placed the heavy 
gold circlet on her finger ! How proudly he bore her down 
the crowded church aisle ! 

Ah, little Lilly was no doubt his dear and cherished 
wife. But this one, ’twas plain to see, was the one love of 
his life. 


WHO WAS THE THIEF? 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

F red LORING’S toilet was at length completed, and 
turning from the glass, he llaid : 

“ Well, I’m off now, Nellie. Good-by.” 

“At last ! Excuse me, Fred, but just now quietness is 
more desirable than your society. It is impossible to get 
baby to sleep while you are flying about the room. She 
sees you, and wants to get to you,” answered Nellie. 

“All right. I’ll get out of the way. By-by, baby.” 

And kissing the little one, Fred hurried out. 

Ten or fifteen minutes passed. Baby was quiet at last, 
almost asleep, when the door opened, and in rushed Fred 
again. And up started baby, with a shout of welcome. 
An impatient look came into Nellie’s eyes, and the tone to 
her words : 

“ Oh, Fred, I had almost gotten her to sleep. And now 
see ! And I am so tired. What has brought you back so 
soon? 

“ Well, well, I’m sorry. But I left my revolver behind. 

I guess she’ll soon be quiet again,” Fred said, unlocking 
the drawer and taking out his revolver. 

“ Fred, I declare I never did see such a man. You can- 
not leave the house without being armed. Do you forget 
there is a law against carrying concealed weapons ? ” 

“ I remember to be on my guard, and prepared to defend\ 

( 200 ) 


WHO WAS THE THIEF? 


201 


myself if it be necessary. Every day we read accounts of 
persons being robbed, knocked down, and such like. I 
tell you, Nellie, sensible persons go armed always.” 

“Perhaps, Fred. But I think the nervous and sus- 
picious persons are more likely to. Indeed, I never like to 
see you carrying off your revolver. I’m in constant fear 
of something dreadful happening.” 

“ But never in dread of any one murdering and robbing 
me. Of course not ! ” Fred snapped forth. 

“ Oh, Fred ! You are so quick and suspicious of every 
one, that my great fear is you’ll hurt the wrong person 
some time ! ” said Nellie, with a really anxious look on her 
pretty face. 

“ Indeed I am not aware of ever having gotten hold of 
the wrong person. I think you are calling on your im- 
agination for facts, Mrs. Loring ! ” Fred said angrily. 

“ Now, Fred, to defend myself I shall have to point to 
facts. Do you forget catching hold of poor old Uncle Tom, 
and choking him so he could not explain he was carrying 
the clothes to his wife to wash, instead of being a thief, as 
you supposed ? And — ” 

“And will I ever forget your handing me over to a 
policeman, for having attempted to pick your pocket in the 
streetcar?” exclaimed a bright, merry-looking girl, who 
entered the room during Nellie’s attempt to defend herself 
from Fred’s accusation. 

“Oh, Fan, don’t, for mercy’s sake. I cry quarter. 
Two at a time is more than I can stand. And besides, I 
had hoped that you would not have exposed that miser- 
able mistake ! ” Fred said, with a reproachful look. 

“ I intended to keep the secret. But really, Fred, I’ve 
been almost dying to have a good laugh with Nellie over 
it. And to-night the opportunity was too tempting to 
resist.” 


202 


WHO WAS THE THIEF? 


“ Mercy, Fan ! If you tell Kellie, I’ll never hear the last 
of it.” 

“ Oh, I must. It is too late to recede. Kellie will im- 
agine it worse, if possible, than it really is. But I’ll not 
prolong your agony. I’ll be as brief as possible,” said 
Fannie. 

And amidst the cries of “ Don’t ! don’t ! ” and “ Yes, do, 
do ! ” Fannie began. 

“ The day I reached here, just as I came out of the de- 
pot, I spied my beloved and respected cousin Fred enter 
ing .the street car. I hurried up, and got in immediately 
after him. Even if my veil had been raised I could hardly 
have expected him to know me, as I have changed much 
in five years. As it was, my face was completely hidden. 
The car was much crowded, many standing — I next be- 
hind Fred. I was well laden with lots of little packages, 
so the idea struck me to drop a few into Fred’s overcoat 
pockets. Without discovery I put what I wished into one, 
and was about slipping my porte-monnaie into the other, 
when my hand was caught with such a grip that I screamed 
right out. At the same time Fred exclaimed, ‘ Here is a 
pickpocket ! ” And of course there was a policeman there, 
as none was needed. I was too frightened to speak for an 
instant. At length I found voice enough to say to the 
officer, who was making his way toward me, ‘ The gentle- 
man will find he is mistaken in a moment.’ 

^‘After the first fright, I was really amused, notwith- 
standing the mortifying situation. By that time Fred had 
drawn forth my porte-monnaie. Kodding to the policeman, 
he said : 

“‘An old dodge. Putting into my pocket what she has 
taken from some one else. Has any one here lost this ? ’ he 
asked, holding up my porte-monnaie. 

“Ko one claimed it. I managed to get off my veil then, 


WHO WAS THE THIEF? 


203 


that I had been tugging at. I had gotten a lady in the 
depot to tie it tightly behind, as it was blowing a perfect 
gale when I arrived. All eyes were on me then, of course. 
And the officer, not recognizing an old offender, and not a 
very guilty-looking young one, hesitated. I looked 
eagerly at Fred, to see if he would not recognize me, but 
he did not. There was a very embarrassing pause then, 
that had to be ended ; so I said, not trying to restrain my 
smiles : 

“ ‘ If you will open that porte-monnaie, Mr. Loring, you 
will see my card. I thought my acquaintance would jus- 
tify my loading you with some of my bundles. If you 
will notice, your other pocket is full.’ 

“ Every one waited eagerly the result. Quickly Fred 
did my bidding. You may imagine his look, when he 
exclaimed : 

“ ‘ Fannie Loring ! Bless my soul, coz, can you ever for- 
give me? But how could I know you? I’ve not seen you 
since you were a child.’ 

“ There was a shout of laughter heard then, in which 
Fred and I joined. But Fred’s was not a very hearty 
laugh ; and I think he was glad to get out of that car, for 
he made me walk at least three times as far as ever you 
and I walk when we leave the car.” 

Nellie was almost convulsed with laughter, which baby 
seemed to enjoy very much. And Fred exclaimed : 

It was not half as bad as you have made it out. Fan. 
And just for a punishment for your laughing so, Nellie, I 
hope baby will not go to sleep for hours. I’m off now.” 

Merry rippling laughter followed him. And Fred ran 
down the stairs, and out of the house, almost hoping 
somebody might attempt to rob, or murder him even, so 
that his revolver might prove of great avail, and thus 
silence Nellie, who was ever talking about what she called 


204 WHO WAS THE THIEF? 

his suspicious nature, when it was only necessary caution^ 
he thought. 

Soon baby was sleeping soundly, notwithstanding 
Fred’s wish to the contrary. And Nellie, putting her into 
the crib, went to the bureau to arrange her hair. 

‘‘Why, Fred has gone without his watch!” she ex- 
claimed. “ I don’t think he ever did that in his life before. 
I wonder he has not been back again before this 1 ” 

The hours passed swiftly by. Fannie, with her merry 
heart, fully compensating Nellie for Fred’s absence. Eleven 
o’clock came before they imagined it near so late. And 
just then they heard the hall door close, and a moment 
after Fred entered the room, and in an excited voice ex- 
claimed : 

“ Now, ladies, perhaps you will admit the good of carry- 
ing a revolver, when I tell you that to-night I have been 
robbed.” 

“ Robbed 1 ” exclaimed Nellie and Fannie simulta^ 
neously. 

“ Yes, robbed. But I did not stay so, many minutes, 
thanks to my revolver I Listen, and I’ll tell you all about 
it. On my way home I turned Gray’s corner into Four- 
teenth street. You know how dark and dismal it is about 
there — no lights. Well, as I turned, a fellow came rushing 
along, knocked against and nearly sent me down. And 
saying quickly, ‘ Excuse me, sir,’ hurried on. I suspected 
what it was — a dodge they have when relieving a man of 
his watch or pocket-book.* I hastened to feel for my watch. 
It was gone.” 

“ Why, Fred, your watch — ” 

“ Stop I Don’t interrupt me. Wait until I’ve done.” 

The girls exchanged looks— mirthful first, anxious after. 

“ In a second I was after him. Presenting my revolver, 
I bade him hand me the watch. He resisted. I covered 


WHO WAS THE THIEF? 206 

him with my pistol, and spoke again in a tone which con- 
vinced him I was in a dangerous mood. 

‘ Hand me that watch.’ 

Out it came ; and without taking a second look at me, 
he left. And thanks to my little beauty here,” tapping 
his revolver, ‘‘ I am home again, no worse off than when I 
started. Now, what say you? ” 

“ Oh, Fred ! Oh, my dear, what have you done ? Oh, 
you have robbed that man of his watch ! Yours is on the 
bureau. You left it home,” Nellie cried, in a voice of real 
agitation. 

“What? No! Surely not!” exclaimed Fred, growing 
very red, and starting toward the bureau. 

Fannie handed to Fred his own watch, at the same time 
fairly shaking with the laughter she had tried so hard to 
suppress. 

“ Oh, Fred, forgive me. I’m only human ; I must laugh 
or die.” 

Peal after peal came from the merry girl, who could not 
restrain herself, although Nellie looked so reproachfully, 
and Fred really angrily at her ; the former saying : 

“Indeed, Fannie, I’m too much frightened to laugh.” 

Fred was too mortified to say another word for some 
time. At length, turning to Fannie, who had grown a 
little quiet, he snappishly said : 

“ Pray, don’t stop ! I’m very happy to afford you so 
much amusement.” 

Of course Fannie began anew ; and Nellie trying to stop 
her by looks and motions, asked : 

“ What shall you do, Fred ? ” 

“It is not a matter of such vital importance that you 
need look so worried, Nellie. I’ll go to the police head- 
quarters, explain the matter, and leave the watch. That 
will be the end of it,” said Fred, trying to assume a light, 
careless tone. 


206 WHO WAS THE THIEF? 

Nellie hoped it might he the end of it ; but still fearful 
of something unpleasant, asked : 

“ Is it too late to-night to go, Fred ? ” 

Certainly it is,” Fred answered. 

Seeing Nellie’s face still retain its anxious and frightened 
expression, Fred broke out laughing himself, saying : 

You look as much frightened, Nell, as I imagine that 
man looked when I went for his watch.” 

Next morning Fred was longer than usual getting off 
from home, and all Nellie’s urging haste seemed to have 
the tendency to retard instead of accelerating his motions. 
But at last, to her great relief, he was off. After getting a 
few rods from home, he drew forth the stolen w^atch, and 
found of course it had run down. Having no key to fit it, 
he approached a jewelry store, intending to have it wound 
up. He had failed to'^notice the very particular attention 
with which a policeman was regarding him. Just as he 
was about to enter the store, he was tapped on the shoul- 
der. Turning, he beheld the officer, a total stranger to 
Fred, so he knew it was not a bit of use to explain the case 
to him. So to attract as little notice as possible, he walked 
quietly along with his not very agreeable companion until 
they reached the police head-quarters. 

There he began his explanation. All were strange faces 
around him, on which he saw unmistakable signs of merri- 
ment when he said it was “a mistake.” And to his im- 
mense surprise, after he had handed over the dreadful 
watch, and was turning to leave, he was made to under- 
stand he was a prisoner — the accusation, ‘‘ Robbery and 
assault, wfith intent to kill ! ” 

He sank on the bench for a moment, so overwhelmed with 
surprise and mortification that he could with difficulty 
collect his senses enough to know what to do. Just then 
a_ gentleman entered, and said to an officer near; 


WHO WAS THE THIEF? 


207 


“I was surprised to hear you had caught the rascal 
so speedily. Where is the scoundrel? What does he 
say?” 

“ That it was all a mistake ! ” answered the officer, with a 
very significant smile. “ There he is,” pointing to Fred. 

“Of course — the villain! And if I had been so un- 
fortunate as not to have had a watch to hand over, he 
would have murdered and robbed me of what I might 
have of any value. The murderous rascal I — Ah 1 how are 
you, Loring? You here I ” advancing and shaking Fred’s 
hand cordially, and continuing, “ Show me that cut-throat! 
Which is he ? ” 

The expression on Fred’s countenance may possibly be 
imagined, but I cannot describe it. And when, in answer 
to the call, “ Prisoner, stand up,” he arose, his friend’s — 
the plaintiff’s — surprise was stupendous for a moment; 
and then breaking into a hearty chuckle, he exclaimed : 

“ Of course now I know it was a mistake.” 

The dignity of the place was forgotten hy all then, and 
never was such a shout of laughter heard before within 
those walls. But Fred could not join in it, to save him. 
He had too lately stood in the place of an individual 
bearing quite too many opprobrious epithets, to feel very 
light-hearted. 

He returned home to relieve Nellie’s mind, telling her 
it "was all settled — she need have now no more anxiety 
about it. But he never told her how it was settled. One 
thing, however, she noticed — he was not so fond of his 
revolver’s companionship as he used to be. And once she 
heard him say : 

“ If the law was more strenuous with regard to the 
carrying of concealed weapons, there would be fewer 
criminal indictments.” 


THE GHOST. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

EEPING through the leaves of the vine-covered 



J- bower, and watching eagerly the path through the 
woods, was a beautiful little maiden. An anxious look 
was in her deep blue eyes, as pressing her hands over 
her heart, as if to stop its heavy beating, she said : i 

“ Oh, why does he not come ? How long a time ! If j 
he had good news, I know he would come quicker. Oh, I I 
have not a mite of hope ! ” | 

The pretty lips quivered then, and she stepped back, | 
and sank on the mossy seat. 

A moment after a sound, slight as the dropping of 
leaves, caught her ear. She sprang up, and for an instant 
a bright light shone in her eyes, but quickly died away, as 
the slow, heavy step came nearer, bringing to sight a tall, 
noble-looking young man, whose face, if less stern, would 
have been very handsome. 

Without speaking, he clasped her outstretched hand 
and drew her within his arms, shaking his head sadly. 

I felt it was so, or you would have come sooner,” the 
maiden said, resting her head against his shoulder. 

“ I had little, if any, hope, Susie. I went this last time 
because you bade me to.” 

“ What did father say, Frank? ” 

“ Over and over the same old story of having, since your 


( 208 ) 


THE GHOST. 


209 


babyhood, intended yon to be the wife of his friend’s son. 
Oh, if I were wealthier, it would be all right, I know,” 
Frank said, his dark eyes flashing. 

“ Don’t talk so, dear, please. I do not like to hear yon 
impute a wrong motive to my father. I will never, never 
listen for one moment to any words of love from George 
Forrester, or any other man but yon, Frank. So you may 
be sure, if papa will not let me marry you, I will never 
marry at all,” Susie said, her eyes full of tears, looking up 
to his. 

“ Susie, I have made three appeals to your father during 
the year past; each time finding him, if possible, more de- 
termined to oppose our happiness. I will never humiliate 
myself again, and he will never yield. Now what will 
you do ? ” 

“ Wait, hope and pray. I can do nothing more,” Susie 
answered, in a tearful voice. 

“ Yes, Susie, darling, you can, and secure our immediate 
happiness. You can come with me, be my own true wife, 
love.” 

“ No — no — no. I cannot. I should not secure our hap- 
piness. I should be miserable, and make you so.” 

^^Then I have nothing more to hope for. He will not 
give you to me, and you will not come. Oh, Susie, how 
can you send me off? You know you are all the world 
to me ! If I lose you, I lose everything. I am alone in 
the world. There are many loved ones to comfort your 
father, until he comes to his better nature and calls you 
back to his heart. Susie, am I to leave you forever ? ” 

The beautiful dark eyes were looking into his, filled 
with so much love. How could she resist? 

“ No — no. I shall die, if you leave me — never to come 
again! Oh, what am I to do? I love you better than my 
own life, Frank, indeed I do ! But, father— oh, how can I 
13 


210 


THE GHOST. 


desert him ? He loves me more than the other children. 
I am the oldest, his first child, and so like what mother 
was. That is why he loves me so. And now she has gone, 
I should stay — ” 

And break your heart and mine, too, Susie ? ” 

“If I thought, Frank, you would not mind it very 
long — ” 

“ You would give me up ! And, in time, get into your 
father’s way of thinking, and end by marrying the man 
he -wants you to,” Frank said, withdrawing his arm and 
turning away with a great sigh. 

“ Oh, Frank, how can you talk to me so ? ” 

“ Well, Susie, it is useless prolonging our sorrow. I had 
better say good-by, and go forever.” 

“ No, no, Frank, dear love. Oh ! what am I to do? ” 

“Be happy, my own, and make me so. Be my wife 

before I return to W . Go with me. Susie, your 

mother loved me. I know, if here, she would plead for 
me.” 

“Yes, she loved you, and perhaps in her blessed home 
she will pity me, and win for me forgiveness, alike from 
heavenly as earthly father, if longer my heart cannot re- 
sist my love,” Susie sobbed, dropping her golden head on 
her lover’s bosom and promising all he wished. 

“ The last night at home,” she said. “ On the morrow 
I must go forth, to return no more, the loving, dutiful 
child. Should he ever consent to have me come back, I 
can never be again what I once was to his heart. I shall 
have broken the trust he held in me,” Susie moaned. 

Tenderly the brother and sister were ministered to, her 
hand resting on each little head, as their lisping voices 
followed hers in the evening prayer. Willie and Emma 
arose, their demure faces lifted to receive the good-night 
kiss. But Rosie, the two-and-a-half-year baby, the dying 


THE GHOST. 


211 


mother’s sacred charge, wound her tiny arms about the 
elder sister, and with baby-like perversity hung on, 
lisping : 

“ Now Susu pay, too. Pease, Susu. Do! ” 

The baby plead ; and Susie, raising her eyes to Rosie’s, 
felt mother, not far away, but near, very near, and plead- 
ing throu^gh her child. 

The sunny head was dropped again, and Susie prayed 
— even as Rosie had begged her. Prayed for guidance to 
the better way. 

Three pair of little pattering feet were resting. Three 
rosy faces pressed the downy pillow, and Susie’s evening 
task was done. 

Gently she stole away. 

“ I will go to father myself, to-night. I will plead with 
him until he must yield,” Susie said, as cautiously closing 
the door of the nursery she entered her own room. 

The evening was oppressive, and Susie’s black dress 
bec’ame very uncomfortable. Flitting about, guided by 
the moonbeams, she sought for something of lighter tex- 
ture. The mourning robe was laid aside, and a dress, 
white and fleecy, wrapped her slender form. The cluster- 
ing ringlets were smoothed back, and rolled in a heavy 
coil high on the back of her head. 

“Now I wull go down. Father will be alone at this 
hour, and — ” She paused, raised her sweet eyes upward, 
and clasping her hands she murmured, “Mother in heaven, 
plead for me.” 

Noiselessly she opened the door and glanced into the 
room. Her father sat with his back toward her, leaning 
on a table over which were scattered books and papers. In 
his hand he held the picture of her mother. She drew 
back a little, still, however, standing within the door. 
She dared not interrupt the sacred privacy of the hour. 


212 


THE GHOST. 


The rustle of her garments, light as it was, must have 
caught his ear, for his bowed head was raised. 

“Mary! my wife! my own!” he cried, starting forward, 
with extended arms. “ Thank God for granting me one 
glimpse of you again ! ” 

Susie, awed and trembling, raised her eyes to see 
clothed as in life, the same sweet, gentle face, the rippling 
hair, caught back from the smooth, clear brow. 

“ Mother ! ” she breathed forth. i 

The room was lighted only by the moonbeams ; but the | 
vision was plainly seen. Another eager glance, and Susie 
stole away to her own room, and sank almost fainting into 
her mother’s chair. A little while, and grown calmer, she 
opened her eyes, to see again, directly in front of her, the | 
same vision. 

She started forward, stretching out her arms, and call- ! 
ing softly, “ Mother.” 

Nearer — nearer she drew, until, face to face, she stood 
beside the large mirror in front of which she had seated 
herself. 

Unwittingly in one of her mother’s dresses she had 
robed herself, and gathered her curls in the manner her 
mother was accustomed to. 

“How very, very like her I am! Yes, now I know; 
father saw me in the mirror opposite which I stood. Well, 

I will not break his sweet delusion. I meant it not. 
Heaven knows. Oh, if mother couldf’ only come to him — 
in dreams, perhaps — to plead for me ! I cannot desert him, 

I cannot ; I dare not ! But Frank — oh, how can I give him 
up ! I will give up neither, but clinging to both loved ones, 
will trust to Heaven for a happy decision.” 

With this determination she sank to sleep, sweet and 
undisturbed. 

Early next morning, as usual, she was in the breakfast- 


THE GHOST. 


213 


room, ministering to the little ones clustering around her. 
The father’s frown had lost its accustomed sternness, as he 
stood regarding his eldest child. A gentle, sympathetic 
light was in his eyes as they rested on the sweet face grown 
older, much, in those days of anxious care. How matronly 
she looked ! So patiently listening to, and answering every 
wish of the little ones. 

At last they were all satisfied ; and Susie seeing, as she 
thought, her father deeply interested in the morning paper, 
stole away to the trysting-place. 

“ I cannot leave him, Frank. Indeed^ I never can with- 
out his blessing resting on me. No, no ! ” she cried, as she 
saw the disappointed and stern expression of her lover’s 
face. “ I have tried, in vain, to make my mind up to it. 
How can I give up either ? loving you both so well.” 

“You have trifled with me, Susie; you have broken 
your promise, too. You will, most likely, never see me 
after this tnorning, if I go from you. Are you determined? ” 

“Yes, dear, dear Frank, I am determined not to go 
unless father blesses and bids me go. I will trust my 
happiness to him, and God, who ruleth all things,” Susie 
answered, looking very sorrowful, notwithstanding her 
faith. 

“ Then, good-by.” 

She raised her face, pale and pleading, to his : 

“Kiss me good-by, Frank, and say, ‘God bless me,’ 
please,” she whispered. 

Fie did as she pleaded, but there was an injured air in 
his manner. As he parted from her, she sprang after him, 
crying : 

“ Forgive me, Frank, if I have wounded you. Know 
that to me it is worse. One little parting look of love, 
darling I ” 


214 


THE GHOST. 


“ Oh, Susie, how can you ? ” He pressed her again to his 
heart, looked lovingly enough : but his eyes, as plain as 
words could, repeated Tennyson’s lines : 

“ Trust me all in all, 

Or not at all.” 

And^ determined to make one more appeal, he said : 

“Susie, darling! love! trust me for happiness. You 
will never repent it. Come ! ” 

“ No, no. Go ! ” 

He turned off quickly, angrily then; and Susie sank, 
sobbing, on the grass. 

“ My daughter ! ” 

She raised her eyes, heavy with tears. Beside her, with 
a sad but kind and gentle face, her father stood. With 
him, a puzzled, doubtful expression on his features, her 
lover. 

“ Oh, Frank, I am so — so glad to see you again ! ” she 
cried, with as much joy beaming in her eyes as though 
their parting had been for years. 

“ Yes ; as it is so very long since you saw him last ! ” her 
father said, with a pleasant smile. 

“ I feared it would be for years, perhaps forever,” Susie 
said, in a low voice, anxiously regarding her father, and 
longing to beg an immediate explanation of her lover’s 
return. 

“ My daughter, what did you intend to do after sending 
off this young man ? Be a dutiful child, and wed as I wish 
you ? ” 

“Never, never, father! I intend to be dutiful only 
so far as not wedding against your wishes, that is all — to 
leave the future to God, only praying constantly that 
some blessed influence may be sent to change your mind 
and heart,” Susie answered, raising her eyes to his, filled 
with earnest determination. 


THE GHOST. 


215 


” Your prayers must have commenced already, my child. 
Some influence hath surely been sent — some blessed influ- 
ence, I truly believe. Yes, my child, you will wed to 
please your father. Here, Frank, take her. I ought to 
scold you for trying to coax her from me. I heard it all 
this morning. But I forgive you for her sake, and bless 
you, too, boy, for the sake of the one in heaven who loved 
you. There, there, daughter, don’t choke me with your 
kisses. Take her off, Frank, and make her happy. She is 
a good child, and will make a true and loving wife. God 
bless you both, my children ! ” 

And so ended Susie’s intended elopement. 


THE TWO BROTHERS 


BY FKANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

A H, here we are! ” said a pleasant voice, as the driver, 
having jumped from his seat, opened the carriage 

door. 

“ Yes, sir, I think so. This is the street and number — 
244 or 246, which did you say ? ” 

“ Ton my word, IVe forgotten, and lost the card,” an- 
swered the pleasant voice. 

“ The name, sir ? I’ll inquire.” 

“ Never mind. I’ll take a look at both houses, and see 
if I cannot decide. I’m earlier than expected, so I can 
look well before they come out to welcome me. Just 
dump my luggage down on the sidewalk, and make off 
for another job,” said the old gentleman, handing the fare 
to the man, who soon after drove off. 

“ Well, here are two cottages alike, and very unlike, too. 
This one is Charley’s home, I know. Why? Because it 
is newly painted. The fencing all in perfect order. The 
grounds, although very limited, are prettily fixed up. 
Flowers and vines — ah, I like the looks of this place! 
And I’m sure I’m right in fixing it in my mind as 
Charley’s. Some don’t-carish fellow lives there — loves his 
pipe, cigars and wine, may be, better than his home, wife 
and children. Dear, dear ! how those blinds are suffering 
for a coat of paint ! A few dollars would make that fence 
(216) 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


217 


all right. How different that entrance would look with a 
little rustic seat like this one ! I wonder that fellow does 
not notice how much he might improve his place, if he 
only did as Charley. But here comes the servant. I’ll 
get her to let me in.” 

“ Bather sooner than you expected me, ain’t it ? Folks 
not up yet? Just go back and open the door, my girl; 
let me in, and then tell Mr. Charles Mayfield that his 
uncle has come ! ” 

“ Oh, sir, you mistake ! It is next door Mr. Charles May- 
field lives,” answered the girl. 

“Next door? No; you mistake, surely. My nephew 
Charley can’t live there ! ” 

“Yes, sir. But his — ” What the girl was going to say 
was stopped by a jovial voice in the next door, calling 
out: “Uncle, here! How are you?” And a moment 
more the pleasant old gentleman was caught by both 
hands and drawn along to the next house. Ilis nephew 
Charley saying : “ I’m so delighted to see you ! Come in 1 ” 

Into the parlor he was carried, and seated in a very 
comfortable arm-chair. The interior was more inviting 
than the outside. It told very plainly that the wife did 
her duty toward making everything as nice as possible ; 
in a word, making the best of her means. 

A very short time after a sweet-faced little woman en- 
tered, and was presented by Charley, saying: 

“ Here is your niece, uncle.” 

The old gentleman received her welcome greeting by a 
return of real affection. His heart warmed immediately 
to his nephew’s wife. She bore the traces of beauty which 
had been chased away by an over-amount of care, the 
uncle very soon felt sure. There was an unmistakable 
look of weariness and anxiety in her eyes. 

Very soon Nellie, as Charley called her, excused herself, 


218 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


and went out, saying she had a very inexperienced ser- 
vant, and had to oversee and assist her in her work. 

Breakfast was announced, which was one that Uncle 
Hiram enjoyed, notwithstanding the feeling which was up- 
permost in his mind, that the strong, fragrant coffee, the 
delicate rolls, and the steak which was cooked just as it 
should be, in a word, all that was so nice, was the result 
of Nellie’s skilful hands. And she looked so tired and 
heated when she sat down to do the honors of her table. 
Again Uncle Hiram noticed that constantly her eyes wan- 
dered from the table to a door which entered the next 
room, which was partially opened. Her ear seemed 
strained to catch every sound. At length a little, feeble 
wail told the cause of her anxiety. 

“ Will you excuse me a moment, uncle ? ” she asked, 
and continued : “ Our babe was quite sick all night, and I 
feel anxious about her.” 

A moment or so .after Nellie withdrew, the servant 
came in, bringing a fresh supply of hot rolls. Then Uncle 
Hiram had a chance of seeing the help Nellie had with 
her many duties — a half-grown girl. 

“ Inexperienced, truly, inefficient and insufficient,” said 
the kind old man to himself ; and he made a note of that 
on the tablets of his heart. 

Soon Nellie came back, looking much relieved, and said, 
smiling : 

“She seems much better this morning. How these 
little ones fill our heart with anxiety ! I was up with her 
all night ! ” 

Down went another note on Uncle Hiram’s tablets. 
Awake all night with a sick baby, and up cooking break- 
fast in the morning ! No wonder her youth and 
beauty have been chased away, poor, weary, overworked 
mother ! 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 219 

“ Who lives next door, Charley ? ” asked his uncle, after 
they had withdrawn from the breakfast-room. 

“ Why, I have a surprise for you — Henry lives there.” 

“ Henry ! Henry who ? ” 

Why, Henry Mayfield, my brother.” 

“ No! Why, the last time I heard from him he was in 
St. Louis.” 

“Well, he is here now, and has been for five months. 
His wife’s relatives are all here. And so he having been 
offered a position in the same firm with me, accepted it. 
We agreed to keep it as a pleasant little surprise for you.” 

“Well, I’m glad of it.” 

Just as Uncle Hiram said so the object of their conver- 
sation came in. 

Henry Mayfield was not the jovial, merry fellow that 
Charley was, and not likely to be so generally a favorite. 
But there was an earnestness and determination in his 
bearing that inspired respect immediately. 

“ Come, uncle 1 Go in with me to see my wife and little 
ones,” said Henry, after sitting and talking a while. “ We 
have a half hour yet before business requires us, and then, 
if you like, we will go down town together.” 

Henry’s parlor, into which he ushered his uncle, was 
furnished better than his brother’s ; but still it was not so 
prettily arranged — the “woman’s touch” was not so 
plainly visible. Immediately Henry’s wife came in to 
welcome her husband’s uncle. 

She was a bright little woman, not near so delicately 
featured as Nellie; but with a youthful, well-preserved 
look, an easy, quiet, peaceful air about her that made 
Uncle Hiram feel quite sure, if he stayed her guest a 
month, it would not put her out a bit. If any extra care 
or worry came, it was not to her. Some one else’s mind 
and hands would have to overcome any difiiculties. 


220 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


‘‘ Henry, dear, have our boy brought in to see his uncle,” 
she said. 

“Ah, ha I ” thought Uncle Hiram, “ I see—the shoulders 
best able to bear the burden of family cares have it. Just 
as it should be ! ” 

A few moments, and the baby-boy was brought in by 
the nurse and presented to the uncle. Baby, like his 
mother, looked happy and healthy. 

When they were about leaving for down town. Uncle 
Hiram heard Henry say : 

“Ada, please order the cook to delay dinner an hour to- 
day. I’ve business which will delay me so long.” 

“Very well,” was the smiling reply. 

“A cook and a nurse. That is why Ada looks so calm, 
healthy and happy. Just as it should be. Poor little, 
patient, over-worked Nellie ! I wonder how it is, both 
having equal means. I must find out what the trouble 
is,” said Uncle Pliram to himself. 

Now, Charley was not a drinking man, his uncle felt 
sure. He knew, indeed, that when he first grew to man- 
hood he had vowed never to touch rum in any form. 

The dinner at Charley’s was better, if possible, than the 
breakfast. It was a real treat to the old bachelor, whose 
life was spent in a boarding-house, to partake of such 
good, healthy fare as Nellie gave him. But always he 
felt like partaking of it under protest. Nellie — little, 
weary, tired Nellie — ever filled his mind and heart. At 
dinner Charley brought forth his ale, declaring it to be 
“the very best in town.” And after dinner his cigars, 
“ none finer to be found,” he said. 

Now, Uncle Hiram could partake of both without 
serious disadvantage either to his health or purse. But 
caring very little for either, he seldom used them. Du- 
ring the evening several gentlemen friends came in to 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


221 


Call on Charley’s uncle, and again ale and cigars were 
put out. 

Uncle Hiram went to calculating. Ale, fifty cents, at 
least, that day; sometimes less, sometimes more. Make 
the average half as much — twenty-five cents. Cigars al- 
ways as much ; frequently, as that day, treble the amount. 
In a month it would sum up, to the very lowest, fifteen 
dollars. And who could tell how much more? What 
would not that money, worse than lost, have secured for 
Charley’s wife and children? 

Rest, health, peace and length of days, most likely. 

Now, Uncle Hiram knew well enough how it was 
Charley did not have things beautiful without and around 
his premises, and why Nellie’s weary mind and tired hands 
could not have help and rest. 

But, next, he must find out how it was that with Henry 
things were so very different. 

The following day Uncle Hiram dined with Henry. 
Everything was excellent and well cooked ; and Ada sat 
at the head of the table, with an easy, quiet grace, which 
perfectly relieved Uncle Hiram’s mind from any care for 
her. He knew very well Ada’s husband sought in every 
way to relieve her of all unnecessary care and anxiety. 
After dinner came tea and coffee — nothing more. When 
they retired from the table Henry said : 

“ Uncle, would you like a cigar or pipe ? I’ll get you 
one in a few moments, if you say so.” 

“And will you join me? ” asked his uncle. 

“ I do not use either. I care not for the weed, and think 
it better not to cultivate a taste,” answered Henry. 

“ You are right, my boy — and how about wine or ale ? ” 

“ Nothing of the kind, uncle.” 

“ Total abstinence, is it, Henry? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 


222 


THE TWO BEOTHEES. 


“ I knew you were a temperate man, as is Charley. But 
he takes his ale, I notice,” said Uncle Hiram. 

“ Yes, I wish he did not ; a man has no idea how such 
little things, as he thinks them, draw upon his purse.” 

“ I know, I know ! ” said Uncle Hiram. And he no 
longer wondered at the difference in Charley’s and Henry’s 
style of living. And so he had a good talk with Charley, 
and showed him how Henry, with the same salary, could 
keep two servants and beautify his home, and he not be 
able “to keep his head above water,” to use his own 
expression. 

“ Yes, my boy, the cause is just this — ^the difference be- 
tween temperance and total abstinence. You’ll try it now, 
will you not, for your wife’s sake? ” said Uncle Hiram. 

“ Indeed I will, sir, and with many thanks to you for 
opening my eyes,” answered Charley, who really loved his 
wife, but was thoughtless, and never for a moment had 
considered himself at all responsible for Nellie’s failing 
health, strength and beauty. 

When Uncle Hiram’s next visit was made, he saw, be- 
fore he entered the house, that Charley had kept his word. 
And when Nellie’s joyous greeting was sounding in his 
ear he knew then that all was “just as it should be ” with 
Nellie, as well as Ada. And the grateful little wife knew 
to whom she was indebted for the happy change, and 
blessed Uncle Hiram for it. 


WHAT HE LEFT 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

“ I know not of the truth, d’ye see, 

I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.” 

M ark BROWNSON was dying, slowly, but surely, so 
the physician told his wife, and advised that if he 
had any business to settle, it should not be delayed. 

“ He is sinking, and even now I see his mind is, at 
times, a little clouded. However, I suppose there is noth- 
ing of importance that he should consider,” said the 
doctor. 

“ He has made no will,” said Mrs. Brownson. 

Is that necessary ? I did not know — ” 

I think it is very necessary, doctor, for his children’s 
welfare. Not that I think it at all likely there can be any 
contest about what Mr. Brownson has. Yet to provide 
against any future troubles, it would be prudent, I think.” 
The good doctor assented, but looked much surprised. 
And well he might. No one imagined old Mark Brown- 
son had anything to will. But he was a very eccentric 
man ; and the economical style of his establishment was 
likely one of his notions. 

“Are you suffering much pain now, Mark ?” asked Mrs. 
Brownson, a few moments after, when she was seated at 
her husband’s bedside. (223) 


224 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


“Yes, yes ; give me my composing draught — the opium 
— anything to relieve me,” answered the sutlering man. 

His wife obeyed, and after his groaning and restlessness 
had ceased, she said : 

“ I want to talk to you, Mark. Can you listen now? ” 

A nodded assent gave her permission to proceed. 

■ “ Do you not think it would be as well for you to express 
your wishes with regard to the disposition of your stocks 
and other effects? You may outlive me, Mark, and this 
thing not be necessaryj still I think it better to attend 
to such business,” said Mrs. Brownson, closely watching 
the effect her words might have on the sufferer. 

She had feared possibly they might shock him severely, 
but depending much on the favorable influence of the 
opiate, she had ventured on the business she considered so 
important. 

A look of satisfaction replaced the anxiety of a moment 
before. She had no longer cause for fear. Calmly Mark 
Brownson heard her suggestion, and said, in a feeble 
voice : 

“What have I to will?” 

“ Why, dear, you forget. Your long sickness and the 
opium — no wonder ! There is the stock in the ‘ Liverpool 
Steamship Company,’ and that in the ‘Australian Mining 
Company.’ Surely you have not forgotten your large 
amount in our State bonds ? And how much you have 
in ‘ Fire and Life Insurance stock ’ I cannot just remembeiT 
now. However, by reference to the papers I can tell.” 

Again she watched her husband’s face. It only ex- 
pressed a rather puzzled brain, as though he was trying to 
remember. 

“ You have such papers? I cannot think,” he said. 

“ Don’t try to, dear. It is not necessary. I will just 
look over your papers, and make a statement; and when 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


225 


I read them over to you in presence of the lawyer, you can 
assent. You wish an equal division between myself and 
our daughters, I know. Is it not so ? ” 

“ Yes, yes. You are always right,” murmured her hus- 
band. 

“ There, dear, go to sleep now. Some time when you 
are easy we will fix this,” said Mrs. Brownson. 

And the next day, at an hour when she knew her hus- 
band’s mind was best prepared, a lawyer was summoned, 
and a statement of stocks and bonds to the amount of two 
hundred thousand dollars placed before him, and Mark 
Brownson expressed his wish to have an equal division 
of his effects made between his wife and two children. 

The will was made, and duly signed and witnessed by 
two of the nearest neighbors and the only domestic, a 
worthy woman who had been with Mrs. Brownson for 
many years. 

A few days more, and Mark Brownson had passed from 
earth. 

Many wondered at the very quiet and unostentatious 
style of the last services for him ; but the widow had said: 

“ In death it shall be with him as he always preferred 
in life.” 

And then when all was over, and the summer months 
were coming, Mrs. Brownson sold out the modest little es- 
tablishment, and, with her daughters and their faithful 
servant, went to board by the seashore, at a very fashion- 
able resort; but, of course, not to mingle in the gay 
festivities of the season, only to recruit her health, which 
was very much impared by long attention to her suffering 
husband, and to have the girls escape the heat and dust 
of the city. 

A few days after they were settled in their new abode, 
Mrs. Brownson said to her attendant : 

14 


226 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


“ Margaret, you were very much surprised by liearing 
Mr. Brownsoii’s will.” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, indeed I was.” 

‘‘ Well, Margaret, I do not wish you to mention any- 
thing about it down here. Mr. Brownson, you know, 
never let it be known to the world. And so it must be 
for the present. I do not wish my daughters to be mar- 
ried for anything but their own good qualities. They are 
good and beautiful enough to marry well, without having 
any other inducements for suitors. Now, Margaret, you 
know just how I feel, and what I mean ? ” said the anxious 
mother. 

“ Certainly I do ! And I feel as much concerned about 
my beautiful young ladies as you do, ma’am. Never fear 
but I will look out for their interest,” answered the worthy 
woman. 

And to do as she said, to the best of her understanding, 
Margaret set out for a walk on the beach, with some of 
the other servants and their escorts, the waiters from the 
hotel. And before the next noon it was well known what 
a good chance there was for two young men to win as 
beautiful wives as ever were seen, to say nothing of the 
other greater attractions. 

And very soon the sisters, IMaud and May, were objects 
of universal observation. Yet it was very difficult to get 
an introduction, the young gentlemen all found ; for the 
widow kept the beautiful girls very much secluded. 

Numberless were the delicate attentions paid them, in 
the way of bouquets, books, and so on, sent by IMargaret ; 
and several cards to Mrs. Brownson, with the request for 
an introduction, accompanied by references — among which 
came those of Vernon Wadsworth and Harry Bennett. 

The first one Mrs. Brownson knew well by reputation. 
He was a young physician of very fine promise, and, being 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


227 


of one of the best families in the State, she considered him 
worthy of her attention. The other, she had heard since 
her arrival there, was the possessor of a very fair amount 
of worldly goods, the life-long accumulation of an old 
miser uncle. So, from the many aspirants, Mrs. Brownson 
selected these two to present to her daughters. 

Just at this time. Doctor Alton, Mrs. Brownson^s friend 
and the physician who had attended her husband, arrived 
at the sea-shore; and through him, without any more 
trouble or waiting the mother’s pleasure, young Doctor 
Wadsworth obtained an introduction, and presented his 
friend, Bennett. 

And although both of these young men did their best to 
keep back all others by various manoeuvres, many more 
became acquainted with the lovely sisters, who soon, 
much to their oto surprise, became decidedly the belles 
of that resort. 

Carefully Mrs. Brownson had guarded her secret from 
her girls, fearing, perhaps, it would have a prejudicial 
effect, changing their sweet, unassuming manner, which 
was one of their greatest charms ; or, perhaps, for other 
motives best known to herself. 

Although Doctor Wadsworth and young Bennett very 
much feared the approach of other suitors, it was quite 
needless, for the girls were best pleased with the first who 
had sought them and drawn them forth from their seclu- 
sion. 

The older one, Maud, a brilliant brunette, received with 
undisguised pleasure the devoted attention of Harry Ben- 
nett; while gentle little May, so fair and timid, always 
greeted the handsome doctor by a rosy flush suffusing her 
beautiful face ; and then, from a shy, quick glance from 
the eyes, that had drooped at his approach, he would see 
the glad light that told how welcome his coming was. 


228 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


We must win them now, doctor ; you see how much 
they are admired and sought here. What will it be when 
they are out of their mourning robes and in the gayeties 
of the city? This is our best chance. What say you? ” 
asked young Bennett, a fortnight after their introduction. 

“ Say ! That the very idea of even losing sight of that 
gentle, beautiful May for a day, fills my heart with mis- 
giving and great anxiety. I tell you, I began this affair 
rather in fun — ” 

“You mean after funds ^ perhaps!” interrupted Bennett. 

A flush suffused Doctor Wadsworth’s face for an instant, 
and he answered : 

“ Well, I’ll admit that is not at all objectionable ; but 
really, now that I know May Brownson, I would not be 
willing to resign her to another man, even if she had not 
a dollar in the world.” 

There was an expression about Harry Bennett’s mouth 
that looked as if his lips wanted to say : “ I don’t believe 
you” — only they did not just dare to. Harry Bennett 
was as much in love as he could be with any one other 
than himself, still he was not going to leap without look- 
ing. So, after learning a little more than he had already 
heard from Margaret, he was called, very urgently, to the 
city. After an absence of only two days he was back 
again, and stated to Doctor Wadsworth his knowledge of 
Mark Brownson’s possessions. That evening Mrs. Brown- 
son received proposals for both of her daughters. 

She must consider the matter, and consult with her 
friends, the prudent mother thought and said to the 
anxious suitors. 

This made them each more determined to secure the 
prize. 

“ Dear May, plead with your mother for me 1 ” said the 
ardent young doctor. 


V 

WHAT HE LEFT. 229 

“Mamma will consent after a while,” answered the 
gentle girl. 

“After a while I Why not now? I am going away 
next month for a long time. I cannot leave you, May. 
Would you wish me to? ” 

May turned pale at the thought, and raised her pleading 
eyes to her mother. 

It was enough. Doctor Wadsworth had used the surest 
weapon. A separation was dreaded by both mother and 
daughter, and each for different reasons. And then it 
was an easier thing for Harry Bennett to obtain the 
mother’s consent, to claim his love at the same time. 

Mrs. Brownson, after giving her consent, requested a 
private interview with her prospective sons-in-law. The 
girls were sent from the room, and then Mrs. Brownson 
said: 

“ I have thought possibly, gentlemen, that a very foolish 
rumor may have reached your ears respecting the wealth 
possessed by my daughters, and that — excuse me, but I 
must allude to it — this may in a measure have influenced 
your selecting them from the many young girls here — ” 

“ Oh, madam ! ” both men exclaimed simultaneously. 

“ If I tell you they have nothing but their pure hearts 
and loving natures, will you not be disappointed ? ” 

“ No, madam. How can you judge me so ? ” exclaimed 
both. 

“ I am glad it is so. I would not have you marry iny 
daughters under false impressions.” 

“ When May is mine, I shall think I have secured the 
most valuable fortune any man can have,” said the doctor, 
with a really honest look in his eyes. 

“ When Maud is mine, I shall know I have secured all 
I would wish,” added Harry Bennett, with rather a sly 
twinkle in his eyes. 


230 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


And so it was agreed that they should be united there, 
and after a very private wedding leave for an extensive 
bridal tour. 

“ The old fox ! Is she not a sly one ? She thought to 
throw us off, I do believe. But I am as bright as she,” 
said Harry Bennett, after the interview. 

“ Really, Bennett, that is not a very respectful way of 
speaking, of the mother of your promised wife,” replied 
Doctor Wadsworth. 

“Well, no; you are right. But just to think of her 
talking so to us ! ” answered Harry, with an air of injured 
pride. 

The ceremony was over. After an acquaintance of less 
than six weeks. Doctor Wadsworth and Harry Bennett 
had won their wives. 

And while the brides had retired to change their dress 
for the travelling-suit, the happy young husbands requested 
to speak a moment with their mother-in-law. 

“ Indeed you must speak; I will not,” said Doctor Wads- 
worth, in a low tone, as he closed the door, and with Ben- 
nett approached Mrs. Brownson. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry Bennett said : 

“ Now, Mrs. Brownson, that we have proved our sin- 
cerity and real love for your daughters, there is no reason 
for any longer concealment.” 

“About what, sir?” asked his mother-in-law. 

“ Come, my dear madam ; this is entirely useless. You 
have tried and proved us. Now to business.” 

“ Really, Mr. Bennett, I am at a loss to understand you ! 
Will you please to be explicit? ” 

“ Well, madam, then I must tell you that I am perfectly 
well aware that my wife is entitled to the one-third of two 
hundred thousand dollars left by her father. Now, my 
dear madam, we are going on a very long and expensive 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


231 


trip, and may need more than I have ‘in ready money. 
Now, that is just the whole truth,” said Harry, who had 
gotten over his slight embarrassment, and then spoke in a 
very business sort of manner. 

Not so Doctor Wadsworth ; he seemed very much mor- 
tified, and looked as if he wished he was away from that 
scene. 

“ Mr. Bennett, I spoke to you about this report, and told 
you how false it was, did I not ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, madam ; but you see — ” 

“ You still believe this, even when I again tell you that 
neither I nor my daughters have a dollar in the world 
beyond the small amount I have now from the sale of my 
household effects ? I assure you, sir, I speak the truth,” 
said Mrs. Brownson, in a tone and manner that would 
have enforced belief. 

But Harry Bennett said, triumphantly: 

“ Madam, I have seen Mr. Brownson’s will.” 

^‘‘That will, my dear sir, is not worth the paper it is writ- 
ten on. Mr. Brownson was out of his head, and imagined 
he was possessed of that sum in bonds and stock. If 
you can find any such possession, no one would wel- 
come it more gladly than I. You can readily prove the 
truth.” 

Harry Bennett gazed bewildered from his mother-in-law 
to Doctor Wadsworth, and then said in a low voice, as if 
to himself : 

“ Caught and caged.” 

“And I am glad of it,” exclaimed the doctor, who was 
truly glad of anything to end that very embarrassing inter- 
view. “ Come, Bennett, we must arrange our trip to suit 
the extent of our purse, and be happy with the prizes we 
have won.” 

“ Well, madam, I must say that the old gentleman’s will 


232 


WHAT HE LEFT. 


was worth something. For I’ll own up now, it helped 
very much to secure you one very nice young man for 
your son. I’ll speak a word for him, although he has 
been done up to a very Brown son ! I’m ready now, Wads- 
worth, and we won’t shorten our trip one mile ; for Pve got 
a fortune, thanks to my old uncle. Yes, and another, I’ll 
have to admit (there she is now), thanks to her father’s 
will.” 

Mrs. Brownson could not resist a smile. She had no 
misgivings about her children’s future happiness. If they 
had not already secured their husbands’ affection, she 
knew they would soon ; for who could help loving such 
lovely girls I 


KATIE’S FISHING. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

dear, I am so tired, so very tired ! toiling all day, 

Vv and often half the night, for barely enough to keep 
soul and body together. I must endeavor to find some- 
thing that pays better than this ceaseless stitching. Four 
long weeks, and I’ve made less than twenty dollars. But 
here comes mother ; I must chase away this weary look.” 

Notwithstanding the smile which welcomed Mrs. Ashley’s 
entrance, the mother could not fail to see that her little 
Katie was looking really miserable. Six months’ constant 
confinement had made a manifest change in the merry, 
rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed girl. So young a heart to be 
burdened with much care ! No wonder smiles had fled 
and roses paled under it. 

Mr. Ashley had been a government clerk, and lived up 
to every cent of his slender income ; just managing to keep 
up a genteel appearance, and send Katie to an excellent 
school, intending to fit her for a teacher. But ere this was 
accomplished, Mr. Ashley died suddenly, and the little 
family were left entirely destitute. Mrs. Ashley was an 
invalid ; she could help in no way to support her little 
family. So poor Katie, when only sixteen, was forced to 
leave her studies and put her shoulder to the wheel. A 
sewing machine was purchased, and bravely she went to 
work. (233) 


234 


Katie’s fishing. 


At the time of Mr. Ashley’s death, many of his friends 
came forward with assistance. Katie was assured that she 
should get a position in one of the departments. Some of 
the most influential of her father’s friends went to work 
for that purpose. But up to the time our story cont- 
mences, Katie had nothing to encourage the hopes raised. 

Mrs. Ashley gazed in silence for some time on her child, 
her heart filled with alarm at the change a few months 
had made. At length she said : 

“ Katie, love, this will never do. You must not work so 
constantly. Get your hat and go take a walk. And, my 
child — ” She hesitated. “ Well, I’ve been thinking that 
possibly, if you would try yourself, and not depend on 
friends, you might get a position. I should think General 
Looms, if he knew you, would give you work. He knew 
your father w^ell. Go and ask him, Katie.” 

“ Oh, mother, it would not be a particle of use. I do 
not believe he would look at me a second time. You know 
I am not handsome, and I have nothing about me to 
produce a favorable impression at first sight. Folks like 
me after they know me. But General Looms would never 
care to know me, when he has so many beautiful women 
about him all the time.” 

“ Kate, you have no confidence in yourself. You are so 
sensitive and retiring. I’m sure, if you would only 
make yourself known, and tell our necessities to General 
Looms — ” 

‘‘What about the general, mother? I know him by 
sight, and to speak to a little. And he is a fine old gentle- 
man, I think,” said Walter Ashley, a boy of ten years, who 
had entered the room and caught the last part of his 
mother’s remark. 

“How, or rather where, did you meet him, Walter?” 
asked Katie. 


Katie’s fishing. 


235 


‘ Why, I see him most every afternoon np where we 
go fishing. Well, it would do you good to see him when 
he has fine luck. I believe he would sooner draw up 
black bass than greenbacks,” Walter answered. 

^‘Oh, Walter, some time when he is in such a good 
humor, could not you tell him who you are, and ask him 
to give me something to do? ” Katie asked, in a tone and 
manner half serious, half in fun. 

“ Now, as if he would mind what a boy said ! No, 
Katie, you come and go with me. Ladies often come up 
to the fishing-ground. Yes, indeed, they do ! Then when 
he looks pleasant enough, you ask him yourself,” said 
Walter. 

“ Oh, I never could muster up sufficient courage.” 

“AVell, come with me anyhow. I am going now. 
Perhaps, when you see him, you’ll find that he is not such 
a frightful somebody,” Walter urged. 

“Yes, do, dear. I think AValter’s idea is very good. 
Go, at any rate. The change will do you good.” 

“ Yes, mother. I’ll go and try to ask him. I feel truly 
I cannot stand this constant confinement very long,” 
Katie said, then putting aside her work and preparing to 
go with Walter. 

They were soon after on their way to the fishing-ground. 
When in sight of the place, Walter said, “ The general is 
not there, but he will come by-and-by, I guess. I’m glad 
we are first. I’ll get a good position.” 

Thinking only then of the sport he was after, the boy 
busied himself with his tackle. Soon his line was dropped, 
and a few moments after, Katie saw him draw it up, with 
a triumphant exclamation. 

“ What a beauty ! Oh, there comes the general. Ain’t 
I glad he didn’t get here before? He would have caught 
this. Now, watch him, Katie, I must to business. I’m 
going to have a brisk time, I think.” 


236 


KATIE^S FISHING. 


Then, in a lower tone, as the general came near, Walter 
said: 

“ He will come right up here beside you, I guess, for he 
most always sits just about here.” 

Katie raised her eyes to the approaching form timidly 
an instant — but an instant only; for surely there she 
found nothing to encourage a longer gaze. 

General Looms looked decidedly cross. And the ex- 
pression changed not for the better during the two hours 
the poor girl sat and watched. 

“ No, no,” she thought. “ There is nothing about him 
to bid me speak.” 

Then at last, tired and disheartened, she coaxed Walter 
to return home. 

“What luck?” asked Mrs. Ashley, meeting them at the 
door. 

“ Splendid ! See what a feast ! ” exclaimed Walter. He 
had quite forgotten the real purpose of Katie’s going. 

“ Oh, Walter, mother means something of more impor- 
tance than your fish,” Katie said, with a reproachful look 
at Walter, adding, “No good luck for me, mamma. I 
could not dare to speak to him. He looked awfully 
cross.” 

“ Well, that’s so. He did. I never saw him so before. 
But the fish did not bite for him. I guess that was the 
reason,” said Walter. 

“ No. He looked cross and annoyed when he first came 
in sight. I noticed particularly,” Katie answered. 

“ I’m sure I cannot imagine why. Only I never saw 
him in such a humor before. But don’t give up, Katie. 
Try again. Something, either at the office or home, must 
have annoyed him. Of course you nor I had anything to 
do with his cross looks,” said Walter. 

“ I will try, but I have not the faintest hope of success,” 
Katie answered, in a tremulous voice. 


Katie’s fishing. 


237 


Day after day, when Walter returned from school, she 
would put aside her work and accompany him, returning 
to the anxious mother ever with the same despondent look 
on li^ pale face. 

Twelve days passed thus. To Walter it was beyond 
comprehension. He declared that always before the gen- 
eral looked pleasant, sometimes he was really jovial, and 
on two or three occasions had spoken with much kindness 
to him. 

“ I declare, Katie, it is the strangest thing I ever knew. 
From the time he comes in sight, he looks cross, and grows 
more so until he or we leave,” Walter said. 

“ Then I will not go any more. I believe I must have 
something to do with his changed humor.” 

“ Oh, nonsense, Kate. I never meant to imply anything 
of that kind. Of course, as I told you before, neither you 
nor I have anything to do with it. Come on. The change 
from sitting over this old machine is good for you; so 
come. If the general never smiles again, we won’t care,” 
Walter said. And Mrs. Ashley urged : 

“ Yes, do. This will be the thirteenth time. Some 
people say that is a fatal number. With me it has ever 
been different. Go. I am sure something will turn up 
this afternoon. I feel it.” 

‘‘Something! AVell, anything will be better than this 
uncertainty,” Katie murmured, kissing her mother, and 
following Walter, who called out : 

“ Hurry up, Katie ! I want to he up there early, and 
get my place. We have managed to keep that spot all 
these days, and I’ve had splendid luck -there.” 

“ It is going to rain, I fear. See how cloudy it is ; I had 
better stay home.” 

“ No, no. Bring the umbrella. Don’t you know how 
much better the fish bite such days, Katie ? ” 


t 


238 


KATIE'S FISHING. 


^ Again tiiey arrived in time to secure the fine place for 
Walter’s sport. And Katie began her watchful, wistful 
gaze. It was not long before the familiar form came in 
sight, nearer and nearer, until the poor girl could plainly 
see the same old look. And it really seemed to her he 
uttered an angry, impatient exclamation. 

General Looms stopped not at his accustomed place, but 
came right up to where they sat. Planting his rod into 
the soil in the vicinity of Katie, he looked at her a few 
seconds, and then said, in a not very amiable tone : 

“I did think you would have stayed home such an 
afternoon. It is a pity your mother has not something 
else for you to do. Can’t you find anything more profita- 
ble to be about ? ” 

Poor Katie, trembling with fright, stammered : 

“ No, sir.” 

Before she could control her emotion sufficiently to say 
anything more, the general exclaimed : 

“ Then I can. Do you write a fair hand ? Can you 
count rapidly ? But you can learn, if you do not already. 
Listen to me. Come to my room to-morrow morning, and 
I’ll put you to work, and keep you so busy you will be 
glad to rest, and not come here every afternoon.” 

‘'Oh, sir, you are so kind, so very kind!” Katie, who 
had found her voice, exclaimed, growing rosy, and really 
quite pretty, with the joyous surprise. “ How can I thank 
you ? ” 

“By keeping off my fishing-ground. Don’t you know, 
ever since you have been coming here, you’ve occupied 
my place? And being a young lady, I could not very 
well ask you to remove. And so I’ll give you an office, to 
get rid of you,” General Looms said, then laughing merrily, 
and looking as he “ used to do,” as Walter said. 

Katie was so overjoyed and reassured by the pleasant 


Katie’s fishing. 


239 


tone and manner of the general, that she told him all 
about the object of her coming; and the general ex- 
claimed : 

“And so you came a fishing for an office! But you 
used the worst kind of bait, my little girl.” 

“ At any rate, you looked as if you would bite every time,” 
Katie answered, her eyes dancing merrily. 

“ Ha, ha, ha 1 ” laughed the general. “ I really have felt 
so. Well, I am truly glad to help the daughter of Mr. 
Ashley, and delighted to get her off my fishing-ground.” 

Mrs. Ashley was watching for her children’s return. As 
soon as they came in sight, she noticed Katie’s quick, light 
steps, and knew something pleasant had happened. 

Katie’s arms were soon about her while she told of the 
splendid luck she had met at last. 

“ Getting an office without asking for it, mamma. Only 
think of it 1 ” Katie exclaimed. 

“Ah, Katie, the true cause of your success was your 
extreme diffidence and timidity. You are such a modest, 
retiring little bird, none but those in the home nest know 
how lovely you really are,” Mrs. Ashley said, with a fond 
look. 

And Walter exclaimed, laughing : 

“Please give me the credit of placing her in the true 
position to command success.” 


THE LANDLADY’S STORY. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


T’S a hard life to lead. I’d never gone to it had poor 



JL Quail lived. Nobody but a woman that has kept 
boarders, and women boarders, too, can tell what a trial it 
is. No, I’d never have gone to it in the world hadn’t 
Quail died and left me a poor, lone widow. Ah, isn’t 
a widow — a poor widow — the loneliest body that ever 


was ! 


‘‘ To be sure, I had the children, and mother, and sister 
Ann ; but they were not Quail. Some folks thought I 
could do better than keeping boarders. May be I might 
have tried. But where could I find another Quail? No 
woman has such luck twice. No, I always had my way ; 
and if I took another, he might want to have his. So I 
gave up all thoughts of matrimony, and went to keeping 
boarders. Some folks was evil enough to say that it was 
to get a better chance ; but you know if that was so I’d 
not have taken women, particularly widows, in. And now 
I’m going to tell you about the two I had. Nice women 
enough to me. I liked them both But, la I they didn’t 
care a bit for each other, I guess. That is, folks in 
the house thought |so. They were polite enough when 
they met at table; but each came to me with their 
complaints. 

“ I’ll tell you how they looked before I tell you more. 


( 240 ) 


THE landlady’s stoey. 241 

Mrs. Julian was a pale, delicate little woman, with large, 
beautiful gray eyes, and wavy light-brown hair, with a 
quiet, almost sad way about her, as though she’d had a 
world of care and trouble. Nobody could think her beau- 
tiful then, but may be that she might have been in her 
better days. She never talked much, and when she did 
there was no foolishness in what she said. But, oh, deary 
me ! that other one, Mrs. Darling — how her tongue could 
run ! Clatter, clatter, and laughing nearly all the time. 

“ The merriest woman I ever saw, and handsome, too, 
with the brightest, blackest eyes, shining black hair — and 
all her own at that — although folks never believed it until 
she proved it to them. 

“ She was kind of daring, too, and would do things some- 
times that some folks said was unladylike, and bold ; and 
one time they said so, when she pulled out the comb and 
pins and let her beautiful hair down, shaking it out until 
it fell like a great black cloak about her. Some that 
couldn’t do that were ‘horrified!’ ‘jealous!’ she said, 
flashing her eyes when she saw their sneering faces. 

“ She would say right out what she thought — and that 
was why I liked her. They both had children, two apiece. 
Folks said I kept an asylum for forlorn women and father- 
less children. Well, my heart was weak, I couldn’t say 
No to those like myself, to poor, lonely widows with young 
ones like my own, poor orphan children. 

“ Oh, but I had a time of it, trying to keep peace, to 
walk between those two, getting on the side of neither ; 
not take up for one, nor be against the other. And then 
about the children ! Each declared the other’s were the 
worst that ever lived. 

“ ‘ Do you think she ought to do so ? Is she not very 
|l wrong?’ asked one; and when she only just had gone 
|j from me the other came to say the same, and more. 

1 15 


242 THE landlady’s story. 

“ And then I’d speak of the faults of neither, only telling 
the goodness of both. 

“ ‘ I don’t like that Mrs. Darling, I cannot ! She is so 
light and frivolous,’ said Mrs. Julian. 

“ I don’t like that woman, with her fine lady airs, she 
is so cold and proud ! ’ 

“ And so the days went by, each seeming to dislike the 
other more and more. 

“ Perhaps about five months we had been together, when 
I had a new boarder come — a quiet, middle-aged man — ^who 
came well recommended. I had but two gentlemen before 
this one came — old Mr. Stearns, that no one minded. He 
was so deaf and almost blind; and his nephew, Billy 
Meeks, that wasn’t smart a bit, a half-wit, some folks 
said. But that was nothing to me. They behaved 
themselves and paid me a good price, and always the 
day ’twas due. 

“ ‘ I’m glad we are going to have a man in the house at 
last, and no longer only apologies for men ; and I like his 
looks. I saw him as he went away. When is he coming? 
And do tell us his name? ’ said the merry widow. 

“‘To dinner to-morrow,’ I answered. ‘And Parkhurst 
is his name. Here is his card ; he wrote it at the door.’ 

“ ‘ Let me see ! ’ Mrs. Julian said quickly, holding out 
her hand to take it from the other one. 

“ ‘ Wait a bit. I’m glad to see you can get up a little 
interest,’ answered Mrs. Darling, passing the card, and 
saying : 

“ ‘ Raymond ! I like the name — I shall like him.’ 

“ I never shall forget the look from those gray eyes. But 
oh 1 how pale the little woman had grown I 

“‘Are you ill?’ I asked. ‘Dear heart, sit down,’ I 
said. 

“ But she pushed by me and went up to her room. 


THE landlady’s STORY. 2i3 

“‘Temper, nothing more,’ said Mrs. Darling. And I 
thought may he so myself. 

“ Near night I heard Mrs. Julian go out ; and she sent a 
little note to me to tell me she was going out of town to 
her mother’s, and would not be home until next night. I 
wasn’t surprised ; she had done this way before. 

“ Well, she came back next night, but the children were 
not with her. 

“ She sent for me to please come up in her room. Well, 
I went. She looked as if she had just got out of a spell 
of illness. 

“ ‘ Mrs. Quail,’ she said, ‘ I’m going to see if I can make 
some new arrangement with you. I don’t want to leave 
you, but will have to unless you will send my meals to 
my room or let me have them by myself, before or after 
the others. I’d just as lief take mine with you and your 
children after all the others have gone, if you please, Mrs. 
Quail. I don’t like strangers, and I will tell you more, if 
you will never mention it to any one. Promise.’ 

“ I promised ; and I never did until all was known by 
everybody. 

“ ‘ Mrs. Quail, I am not a wido-w. I am a deserted wife,’ 
she said, in a low, troubled voice. 

“‘Dear heart, do tell,’ I cried. ‘The villain! where 
is he?’ 

“‘He is only like many other men, not much w^orse, 
perhaps. There may be fault on both sides. I cannot tell 
you more. This is why I care not to meet strange gentle- 
men. I must be careful, you know.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, dear. You are right. I understand. You can 
do as you choose,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Thank you. Then, I’ll be with you and the children. 
I like that best. It will give less trouble,’ she said. 

“ And I fixed it so. 


244 THE landlady’s stoey. 

“ Mr. Parkhurst was a very quiet man indeed, and grave 
enough at times. But the merry widow never minded 
that. She would talk to him and make him smile at 
times. 

“ When they were gone away and the poor little woman 
came, I’d try to cheer her up. I’d tell of old Mr. Stearns, 
who had lately grown very attentive to Mrs. Darling, of 
Billy Meeks having sense enough to dishke the idea of a 
coming aunt ; and of his saying : 

“‘She’s laughing at ye, uncle. She’s after the money. 
Don’t let her get it ! ’ 

“And then I told how sorry we all felt for our 
new boarder. We knew he had some sorrow, that it 
was hard to bear; and how Mrs. Darling tried to cheer 
him up. 

“‘How does he act with her? Does he seem to like 
her?” Mrs. Julian quickly asked. 

“ ‘ Middling well, I think,’ I said. 

“ One day at dinner — I cannot be mistaken ; I’ve often 
tried to think ; may be I was — I thought I heard a foot- i 

step in the front room. I raised my eyes, and there, I 

peeping through the window-curtains, I saw her. Her eyes - 
looked as if they were starting out of her head, and they 
were fixed on Mr. Parkhurst and Mrs. Darling. 

“ I looked again, but she was gone. 

“ Often she would ask me : ‘ Does he like her ? ’ And 
always I’d answer the same way : ‘ Middling 'well.’ 

“‘I hate herV she would answer, and go away to her 
room. 

“ She came home later one evening. By the lamplight j 
we were sitting at the table. I thought Mr. Parkhurst was 
away, and so did she. So we didn’t fasten the door, as I 

most always before. We had finished eating and sat talk- ' 

ing a while. She '^'anted to hear about all that was going | 


THE LANDLADY'S STORY. 245 

on, and I was telling how nearly all the evening Mrs. 
Darling sat on the sofa, in the ' front room, with the new 
boarder beside her. 

“ ‘ Oh ! that woman ! that woman ! I could almost wish 
her dead ! I — ’ 

“ ‘ Don’t ! don’t ! ’ I cried. ‘ ’Tis her way. She means no 
harm, and has never hurt you in any way — ’ 

‘“You don’t — you don’t know. Yes, I hate her! ’she 
cried, the tears running from her eyes. 

“ Just then the door opened, and Mr. Parkhurst stood in 
it. In a second the light was out, and we were in darkness. 

“ It might have been the draft, but I thought it might be 
Mrs. Julian who blew it out. 

“ When I lighted it again she was gone. 

“ The next morning she did not come down. I was busy, 
and sent the girl up to see why. 

“ Soon she came flying back, and said that Mrs. Julian 
was very ill. 

“ Well, I might as well come to it at once. The next 
day the doctor told us what it was. Oh! I shall never 
forget the fright it gave me when the awful name came 
from his lips — small pox ! Ugh ! 

“ The boarders, every one but that ‘ heartless woman,’ as 
she had called her, would have cleared out, but the doctor 
said it was no use, that they were in no more danger than 
everywhere else. He vaccinated all, and gave orders for 
only one person to attend her, and to remain up all the 
time. But where were we to find that one ? 

“‘She is my neighbor. I am in the next room. We 
are away from the rest of the folks. Take care of my 
children, Mrs. Quail, and I will take care of her,’ said this 
heartless woman, 

“And so she did — risking her own life and her beautiful 
fece for this one, who had no love for her. 


246 THE landlady’s story. 

“ Our new boarder was graver than ever. Some declared 
he was frightened almost to death, and some that for Mrs. 
Darling he was anxious. I knew nothing about it, but 
how very little it took to keep him then. 

“Well, it turned out to be a mild case, and by such 
careful nursing the woman was only a little marked. And 
when she came forth among us again she leaned on our new 
hoarder's arm. 

“ ‘ Have you never thought he was her husband ? ’ 

“ No ; how could you, if I didn’t. La ! how blind and 
dumb we are sometimes ! 

“ Mrs. Darling — bless her kind heart ! — told me all about 
it. When the sick woman knew what ailed her and who 
was with her, taking care of her, she cried out : 

“‘Why are you here? Go aw’ay! Go to him! You 
want to kill me ! ’ 

“ ‘ No. You don’t know what you are saying. I won’t 
mind. Listen : I am going to take such good care of you 
that you shall soon be well, and be no less pretty, either, j 
I shall, with God’s blessing, give you back to one who loves 
you dearly, whose heart is aching for you — your husband I 
— my friend ! Yes, you’ll know me better by-and-by, and 
be my friend then.” 

“ This was what Mrs. Darling said ; and after a while 
they grew to love each other dearly. 

Jf' “ You see, somehow, the merry-hearted widow found out 
all about Miss Julian (that was her maiden name), and 
she it was who brought our new boarder. Ah, she did a 
blessed deed ! She made peace between those two, whom 
jealousy and quick temper had parted. They are the 
dearest friends now. Often the happy wife has said to 
me: 

“ ‘ I love her — I love her as dearly as a sister. And I 
judged her so harshly I ’ 


THE landlady’s stoby, 247 

“ Ah, we can’t judge by what comes from the lips, what 
lingers in the heart. I know that well enough. 

“‘How was it you did this doubly -blessed deed?’ 
asked I. 

“‘How?’ A smile was on the merry widow’s face 
as she answered: ‘Why, because I could not help it.’ 
And tears filled her bright eyes when she added: ‘She 
was a sister woman.’ 

“ There ! I vow I believe that girl has let the turkey 
burn! Dear, dear! Keeping boarders is hard work. 
But, as poor dear Quail used to say about the rail- 
road street cars, ‘There’s nothing like it for getting an 
insight of human nature.’ ” 


THE RUSE. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

^X/TILLIE! Millie! where are you? Do come down 
and help me. That’s a darling. Watch the 
pies, and fry the doughnuts, do I ” called a merry voice. 

A moment after, a tall, graceful girl entered the kitchen. 
She would have been beautiful, but for her pale face and 
sad eyes. 

“ Oh, Millie, we have had just the best luck with every- 
thing. Not a pie scorched I Every cake done beautifully ! 
The pudding, I know, will be the best in the country, for 
Rachel was never known to fail I And just look at the 
turkey I Isn’t it a perfect beauty ? Don’t you remember 
what Doctor Grey said two Thanksgivings ago ? That we 
had the best dinner and the prettiest girls in our house 
that could be found in the whole State, he was sure 1 We 
wdll have just as nice a dinner to-morrow. But for the 
girls we will let somebody else speak. I hope Archie will 
come. He half promised — ” 

A sigh from the sad girl reached the ear of her happy 
cousin, who quickly said : 

“ Oh, Millie, how thoughtless I am I I forgot — ^indeed I 
did — that you were not as light-hearted as — as when we 
were getting ready for Thanksgiving last year — ^no, two 
years ago. I can hardly think it has been so long.” 

“It has been very, very long to me, Katie,” Millie 

( 248 ) 


THE RUSE. 


249 


answered, wiping away the tears that had gathered, and, 
filling her eyes, stole down the pale cheeks. 

‘‘ Millie, indeed I would not stand it. It is just hateful 
in uncle to act so. He was always the strangest man I 
ever saw. But while aunty lived, he was not just so 
dreadful. She could win him to something like civiliza- 
tion.” 

“ Don’t, don’t, Katie. Remember you are talking of my 
father.” 

“ Can’t help it. He is my father’s brother. And I don’t 
care if he hears me say it. And if I were you, I would not 
run away. I am opposed to that ; but I’d wait until I was 
twenty-one — that will be in six months — then I’d send for 
Frank, and have him ask once more for you. If uncle 
did not relent, I’d walk off with Frank right before his 
eyes, and be married. I would, just as sure as my name 
is Katie Gordon.” 

No, no, Katie, I cannot do so. I am all that father 
has — the only one who loves him. I cannot leave him. 
He was good and kind until this trouble with Frank’s 
father.” 

Indeed, then stay miserable all the days of your life ! 
And keep Frank so ! Bless his dear heart ! I just hope 
he won’t stay miserable ! There are lots of pretty girls 
who will jump at him. I would try and comfort him 
myself, only I love Archie a little better,” the merry girl 
said, with a bright blush. 

Then, with more apparent sympathy, she continued : 

“Indeed, I am very, very sorry for jmu, Millie. But 
what is the good of being so sad ? You can, if you choose, 
be happy. If you will not, and have made up your mind 
to do the dutiful at all cost, then resign yourself with good 
grace, and be content in the path you have chosen.” 

“ Katie, I will tell you why just now I feel so very sad. 


250 


THE RUSE. 


Frank is to be home to-morrow! His cousin told me. 
Oh, think of it ! Only a half mile from each other, and yet 
so far apart ! ” Millie could not help sobbing then. 

“ And yon will not see him ? ” 

“ Of course not ; I dare not. Father forbade me. And 
it would only be going over the sad parting again ; all the 
more sad because still more hopeless.” 

The entrance of Rachel, the cook, stopped the conversa- 
tion. 

Farmer Gordon and farmer Ralston were neighbors, and, 
at one time, good friends. Their farms adjoined. Once, a 
fine piece of meadow land separated them. Both wanted 
this land ; both being willing to pay a very liberal price ; 
neither was willing to resign his chance of purchasing, or 
to divide the possession. 

So things remained for many months, indeed years, and 
then farmer Ralston came forward, and placed before hia 
neighbor the deed for the land. It was obtained by some 
dishonorable means, farmer Gordon did not hesitate to 
declare. Since then, they had been bitter enemies. Well, 
folks in the neighborhood thought Ralston had done 
nothing wrong, and all espoused his cause. Farmer Gor- 
don was generally unpopular, and it was a source of grati- 
fication to many that he had not been the successful pur- 
chaser. 

The only son of one, and daughter of the other, had 
played together from infancy. After the quarrel between 
their fathers, they were ordered to keep to themselves. 
But this they couldn’t do. In the first place, they loved 
each other too well. Then they met at church and singing- 
school. So it continued, until Frank was twenty-one and 
Millie seventeen. Thanksgiving evening, two years pre- 
vious to my introducing Millie to my readers, Frank had 
sought farmer Gordon, told him how truly he loved his 


THE RUSE. 


251 


daughter, and begged that he would give him permission 
to win her. 

Even farmer Ralston, whose whole heart was centred 
in his only son, accompanied him, and joined his entreaties 
with Frank’s, going so far as to offer the disputed land 
and his hand in friendship again. All of no use. The 
strange, hard man drove them forth. 'He told them he 
hated them both, and his girl should never bear their 
name. 

There was a painful scene between Millie and her 
father. He said many dreadful things that wounded the 
sensitive, loving heart very sorely, and ended by telling 
her the only way she could gain his forgiveness for having 
allowed her affections to be won by one so hateful to him 
was to cast him from her mind and heart. So it was that 
Millie had never seen her lover since. She dared not even 
permit him to write to her. She had only sent him word 
that she should never love any one else. And so Frank, 
in return, sent word by his cousin that he would be as 
faithful, and they would trust to heaven for their future 
happiness. 

Farmer Gordon had been harder and stranger since this 
affair than ever before. And poor little Millie would have 
been very miserable if merry Katie had not spent much 
of her time with her. She was an independent little piece, 
not a bit afraid of her cross old uncle,” as she called him. 
When she was with Millie, she would have merry young 
folks about her. Her uncle would take from her what he 
would from no one else. He really liked the straightfor- 
ward, merry girl. 

“ Still sighing, Millie ? ” Katie said. “ Now I just want 
to tell you plainly, you are being really wicked. How 
much you have to be thankful for I There are many girls 
more miserable than you. You just look as if we had a 


252 


THE RUSE. 


funeral in the house. You better thank our Father for 
blessing you with health and strength, and sparing you, 
and all dear to you, to see another Thanksgiving ! Just 
think — ” 

“Oh, Katie, how could I be more miserable? What 
could make me ? ” 

Millie had hardly uttered these words when her father’s 
own riding horse came dashing, riderless, up to the stile. 

Millie was terrified. She knew that only an hour before 
her father had gone out on Victor, and she cried : 

“ Oh, Katie ! where is father ? Something terrible has 
happened ! See ! How terrified Victor looks ? ” 

Her fears were soon realized. Slowly along the road 
came four of the hands bearing on a litter her father. 

Although no favorite with his servants, for they all 
feared him, the men looked grave enough as they placed 
their burden in the hall. Millie threw herself down beside 
the cold, still form. 

“ Dead ! dead ! ” she cried ; and in an agony of grief 
clasped her arms about him. 

One of the men, nodding his head, said : 

“ ’Tain’t no use to go on so, miss,” and removed her 
from her father’s form. 

Lifting gently, they bore him in, and placing him on 
his bed, stood around waiting further orders from Katie. 

“Are you sure there is no life ? James, go quickly and 
bring Doctor Grey.” 

“ ’Tain’t no use. Miss Katie ; deed it ’tain’t,” the man said. 

“ Oh, father ! father ! Why, why are you taken from 
me? Oh, maybe he is not dead. Run, James; oh, please, 
tell Doctor Grey to come! Oh 1 if God will give him back 
to me, I never, never will be thankful enough.” 

Rachel, the cook, who had been in the family for years, 
came forward, saying : 


THE EUSE. 


253 


‘‘ ’Tain’t no use to go on so, child. If he is dead, it’s 
God’s will. I only wish he had been better prepared to 
go. And as for you, child, I think you’ll be all the 
happier after a bit — ” 

“ No, no, no ! I loved him, indeed I did. I never would 
have left him. And, oh, he used to love me once, so very 
much. Don’t you remember how he used to love me, 
Rachel ? And I remember when I always used to go to 
sleep in his arms. Dear, dear father ! ” Millie sobbed. 

‘‘ You had better go for Doctor Grey, anyhow, James. 
We want a friend at this time,” Rachel said. 

“ Oh, oh, oh ! ” sobbed Millie, bursting forth anew with 
her grief. 

“ You will make yourself ill, child,” Rachel said. 

“ Oh, I don’t care ! I wish I could go to heaven ! ” 
Millie cried. 

‘‘Miss Millie, Master Frank is home,” whispered one 
of the men. 

“ Don’t, don’t, Bill ! I can’t think of anybody but my 
dear, dear father. Oh, if he would only open his eyes and 
speak to me ! Just say, ‘ Millie,’ and kiss me once more ! 
Oh, please, dear Lord, give me back my father ! Indeed, 
I cannot believe he is dead I Only fainted ! Oh, if father 
is given back to me, I never will grieve any more about 
anybody ! Katie, come here, quickly ! Can’t you feel a 
little warmth coming ? ” 

“ Millie ! ” Farmer Gordon’s eyes opened, and he said : 
“ Millie, I’m not dead. Kiss me, child ! ” 

With a wild cry of joy Millie clasped her arms about 
him, and fainted on his bosom. 

“ I did not think the child loved me so ! ” Farmer Gor- 
don said, looking not a bit like a dead or dying man. 

“ You scarcely deserve it, uncle, from her,” Katie said, 
sharply. She began to see that it had all been one of her 
uncle’s queer whims. 


254 


THE RUSE. 


“ There, Rachel ! you know what to do for her. She is 
just like her mother. She would faint, alike for joy or 
grief. I know now how well you love me, Rachel, too.” 

‘‘As well as you will let me. Be more like the Lord 
likes you to be, and you’ll find more love,” Rachel said, 
as she, with James’ assistance, carried Millie to her own 
room. 

“ Uncle, you did this on purpose. I know it. Are you 
hurt at all?” Katie said, looking very reproachfully at 
him. 

“Well, Miss Pert, I can do without a doctor,” he 
answered. 

And Katie went off to help take care of Millie. From 
James she worried out the truth, who said : 

“For heaven’s sake, don’t let old master know I told! 
But he got off Victor. Give him a sharp cut, and sent 
him flying. Then made us fix a litter and bring him 
home. It was lying still in the cold that made him look 
and feel dead. He said he wanted to see if anybody cared 
if he was dead.” 


Thanksgiving, Millie was quite herself again. All the 
day her father had been more as he used to be years 
before. 

“ More like a Christian,” Rachel said. 

“ Less like a heathen,” Katie declared. 

He had patted Millie’s head several times, and kissed 
her, saying he wanted to see the roses come back to her 
cheeks again. 

Katie was as gay as a lark. Her Archie came from 
town, and she presided over her dinner, she claimed, sur- 
rounded by a merry host of young friends and Doctor 
Grey, the family physician. He had always been Farmer 
Gordon’s friend, asserting he knew there was good enough 
in Gordon’s heart if one knew how to find it. 


THE RUSE. 


255 


The young folks were gathered in the parlor. Katie 
was going to have a dance. Millie’s face, although not as 
sad as usual, looked not as Katie wished to see it. She 
had been trying to make up her mind to plead with her 
uncle for Millie. 

‘‘I’m not afraid to do it ; only I don’t want to put him 
in a rage when he is acting something like a human — I — 
yes, I’ll risk it. 

“ Uncle, come here,” she said, drawing him off to her- 
self. “Uncle, if you had been dead yesterday, do you not 
think Frank Ralston would have found his way over 
here to — ” 

“ Give thanksgiving to God for delivering the neighbor- 
hood in general, and himself particularly, from such a 
pest, I suppose,” said her uncle, with a half serious, half 
comic expression. 

“ Nothing of the kind. Only to try and comfort Millie.” 

“She would not have let him — not so soon.” 

“ No, dear girl, she is so dutiful that she would not, I 
fear. Uncle, why won’t you be worthy of that girl’s love? ” 

“ Be off with you, you saucy piece ! ” 

“ No, not until I say my say, uncle ; send for Frank — 
send now.” 

“I will not; neither now, to-morrow, nor ever! Go 
along ! Mind your own affairs, and let Millie’s alone 1 ” 
farmer Gordon answered, yet not so wrathfully as she 
thought he might. 

All were dancing but Millie. She sat with thoughts far 
away. Her father came up to her, and asked • 

Will you not dance, my darling ? ” 

He had not called her so for years. She looked up with 
much surprise, and answered : 

“ I care not to dance, father.” 

“ Come, I will find you a partner.” 


256 


THE RUSE. 


Hei took her hand and led her out into the hall. With 
a cry of joy she sprang forward. 

‘‘ There is a partner for life, little girl! Take her, Frank, 
and send to heaven with her a prayer of thanksgiving for 
bringing an old man to his better nature I God bless you 
and make you both as happy as she deserves to be ! ” 

“Oh! uncle, I thought you said you never would,” 
Katie exclaimed, almost choking her uncle with kisses. 

“ Because I had already done it, and knew I would not 
have to send for him twice,” farmer Gordon said, with a 
merry chuckle. 

“We will build a home for Millie right in the middle 
of the meadowland. And it shall be hers— a peace gift 
from two old men who, praise be to God, are trying to 
get a little nearer heaven ! ” said farmer Ralston. 

It was the happiest Thanksgiving ever known to both 
families. All joined in a grateful prayer to Him who 
doeth all things well. 


THE MASTER’S HEAD 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

^^nrS Mrs. Hammond in?” I asked, of the pleasant- 

jL looking girl who, in answer to my ring, opened 
the hall door. 

“ Yes, marm. But — ” The girl hesitated. “ Come in, 
marm,” she continued. 

I hesitated, then, feeling there was something which 
would prevent my visit being very agreeable, perhaps. 

“ Come in, marm ; and plase excuse me if I take you 
into the sitting-room. And all littered it is, sure. But 
the marster is up in the parlor with his head, sure.”* 

Of course I was pleased to be assured that my friend’s 
husband still held possession of that very important 
article, although, to be sure, I had not been very anxious 
on the subject, as just now, in our own blessed land, the 
dread seems to be of having a head put on, instead of 
taken off. I smiled, following Norah in, saying : 

“ I shall not be frightened by the looks of your sitting- 
room, Norah. Our little ones seem decidedly opposed to 
a tidy-looking room; so I shall feel quite at home.” 

“ Yes, marm. Thank you. It’s the childers that have 
done it, sure. And no help for it, neither ; for their mother 
told me to let thim be doing of anything but making of a 
noise.” 

I pretty well understood what the trouble was before 

16 ( 257 ) 


258 


THE M A STEEDS HEAD. 


my friend came down. After greeting me in her usual 
gentle, sweet manner, she said : 

“ You have come to give me the long-promised pleasure 
— ^to spend the day. Take off your hat and wrappings ; 
approaching and beginning to remove my furs. 

“ Evelyn, stop I You know that it will not be at all 
agreeable to have me remain ; but you are too polite and 
hospitable to say so,” I said. 

“ Not very agreeable to you^ most likely ; and my pleas- 
ure will be very much marred. Norah has told you how 
much Herbert is suffering with his head ? I have to be 
with him constantly during these spells. His only relief is 
afforded by my rubbing. But at times the pain almost 
ceases, and I can run down to look after the children. 
Now, if you stay, I shall be glad ; and if you can manage 
to amuse yourself in any way until the evening, or about 
sunset, then I can be with you. Herbert’s pain is gen- 
erally quite gone by that time,” Evelyn said. 

Thinking I could probably be of service, I agreed to 
remain. 

“ Now I must go back,” she said ; adding, “ Babies, try 
not to be very noisy.” 

She hastened up-stairs. Throwing off my wrappings, I 
soon busied myself with the children— telling them stories, 
and cutting out of paper, to order, men, women and num- 
berless animals. To distinguish the dogs from horses or 
cats myself, I had to write the name on each. But the 
little ones were remarkably bright and very imaginative, 
and saw the wonderful likeness of each to some animal 
they knew of the kind. 

A little while, and Norah came in, saying : 

“ Now, I’ll be after making this room a little dacent, 
sure. And in the kitchen the breakfast dishes all stared 
at me with their dirty faces a shaming me all the time. 


THE master’s head. 259 

But it’s all in their places, and clane, IVe put them 
now.” 

Telling the good-natured girl, no matter about doing up 
the room, I should attend to it myself after getting through 
with my work of creating a deal of litter, as well as men 
and beasts, I dismissed her to more necessary work. Very 
soon after came the boys from school. Two merry, noisy 
fellows they were ; and were just dashing up the steps to 
find “mamma,” when Norah, rushing after, caught them 
both in one embrace, and landed them before me, saying : 

“ Pray kape them here. When their father is home 
with his head, no one but the mistress dare go in the room. 
I’ll give them a bite ; and you, too, if ye plase, marm.” 

Understanding what Norah meant, and thinking, by ac- 
cepting her offer, I should somewhat relieve Evelyn of any 
anxiety as to my comfort, I thanked her, and turned to 
greet the boys. 

As if to explain the state of affairs, and likewise offer 
some excuse for their submitting to what they seemed to 
fear might appear to me an indignity, Fred, the elder, 
after whispering to Charley, “ I’ll tell her,” said : 

“ Papa is awful nervous when he has the headache, and 
mamma tells us we must be very quiet, or,” shaking his 
curly head, “I’d gone for Norah when she caught us so.” 

“ ’Deed we would,” cliimed in Charley. 

Norah gave us a really nice lunch, apologizing for every- 
thing being cold, except a very excellent cup of tea. Light 
biscuit, chipped beef, cake and preserves were before us, 
when again Evelyn slipped in, kissed her boys, giving 
them loving words of commendation for being so good, and 
Norah for being so attentive and thoughtful. She could 
not be induced by the daughter of Erin to “ take a bite ” 
herself. But accepting the cup of tea offered, she said : 

“ I’ll take it up with me. Do try and make a lunch, 


260 


THE MASTER^S HEAD. 


dear. Norah finds it impossible to do much cooking when 
she has the children to mind. In truth, when Herbert 
comes home with the headache, everything is stopped to 
keep the house quiet. I never feel like eating when he 
is suffering so, and the children are satisfied with what 
Norah can find for them.” 

Again she flitted away, and Norah muttered : 

“A starving of herself, and to-morrow it will be sick 
enough she is ; and thin what ? ” 

‘‘ She will be as well cared for as she cares for Mr. Ham- 
mond, I trust,” I replied. 

With a very significant elevation of the naturally turned- 
up nose, and a toss of the amber-hued head, Norah went 
out. Returning in a few moments after with water and a 
towel, she washed the boys’ faces and hands. Then giving 
an apple to each, she bade them “ be off.” 

Late in the afternoon Evelyn came down, a relieved ex- 
pression on her face as she said : 

“ I’m so glad ! he is better, and will be quite well after 
we give him something to eat.” 

Norah was despatched on an errand. 

In an almost incredibly short time we were sitting with 
Mr. Hammond to a nice supper. Beefsteak, broiled just 
as it should be, for the convalescent ; fried oysters for the 
others. I noticed that Evelyn eat but little, and feared, 
as Norah said, she would be sick herself. Mr. Hammond 
bore unmistakable signs of the suffering through which 
he had passed. He told me those spells were quite fre- 
quent. The evening was spent very pleasantly, and ended 
by Norah ’s eseorting me to my home, which was not very 
distant. 

The next day, being a little anxious about my friend, 
and having business in the neighborhood, I decided to call 
for a few moments to inquire if she was well. 


THE master’s head. 


261 


I found her lying on a lounge in the sitting-room, suf- 
fering terribly with her head. Through the opened door 
I smelt the dinner, and heard Norah hurrying around. 
The little ones were trying to be quiet, but every 
now and then a box of tin toys came tumbling down, 
or a little chair was overturned, making noise sufficient 
to startle a well person with ordinarily strong nerves. 
She tried to rise to welcome me. I saw how much 
the effort cost her, and begging her to remain quiet, I 
asked : 

“ Why do you stay down here ? Do let me help you 
up to bed.” 

“ I must, until the boys get home to take care of the 
little ones. Norah has dinner to get. Herbert never likes 
to wait for it,” she panted. 

Norah came in, removed the cloth from the burning 
brow, and wetting it in the ice-water near, placed it gently 
back, at the same time receiving some instructions relative 
to the dinner. 

Very soon Mr. Hammond came in. After greeting me, 
he asked : 

“No better yet, Evie ? ” 

She shook her head, and he continued, turning to me : 

“ You see we both have very troublesome heads.” 

As Norah was dishing her dinner he began talking about 
the most interesting topics of the day. Drawing from his 
pocket a paper, he read an extract or two. 

Seeing this added to poor Evie’s suffering, I proposed 
again she should go up-stairs. 

“ Certainly ; you are right. I could not stand these 
children’s noise. Let me take you up,” Herbert said, for 
a moment recalled to the fact of his wife’s suffering. 

She arose to go, saying she could get along very well. 
He must eat his dinner, which was ready then. I accom- 


262 


THE MASTER^S HEAD. 


panied her, and making her as comfortable as possible, 
was about taking my leave, when in came little Evie, cry- 
ing, Carrie after her, lisping : 

“ Papa make us turn up. Papa says he tan’t weed when 
we bodder him so.” 

“Oh, you should try and not bother papa so much, 
darling,” Evelyn said, in a voice that told how much she 
was suffering. 

I managed to draw them from her to a distant part of 
the room, giving them some pictures she bade me get. 
Again quiet was partially obtained. 

Fifteen minutes might have passed thus, when Mr. 
Hammond came in, bringing with him the perfume of a 
§ne Havana. 

“ Oh, Herbert, dear, please don’t smoke,” Evelyn 
moaned. 

“ Sure enough. I forgot about your head. There, it is 
out. I just ran up to tell you I’m going out for a walk — 
over to look at the tunnel. Do the children annoy you ? 
Norah might keep them down-stairs now. I will be back 
in about an hour.” 

Bowing to me and smiling, he went out. I could not 
stay another moment, my engagement for the evening 
forbidding. Taking with me the babies, I promised to 
give them in charge of Norah. I found the girl busy 
clearing up the dinner-table. 

“Can you keep these little ones down here, Norah?” 
I asked. 

“ Sure, and I can,” answered Norah. “ But it’s himself 
that might have stayed at home, and not been after going 
away at all.” 

“ Gentlemen do not think about such things, Norah. 
You know they can’t be expected to,” I said. 

“Sure, and it’s myself that knows the difference it 


THE master’s head. 


263 


makes when it’s his head. And it’s not so long a time, 
at all, that he should be forgetting of it, sure 1 But what 
can ye expect of a man ? It’s Norah O’Brien that’s had 
the trial of one, sure! and they’re all alike. They be 
after knowing what aches and pains are when they’re 
having thim themselves, sure. And they don’t think 
any other time. It’s not their nature at all,” Norah 
said. 

And I bade her good-by, going my way and pondering 
over Norah’s words, '’^All men are alike ; ” believing, my- 
self, to the contrary. Some are thoughtful ; a few as gentle 
and kind as women, I know. 


THAT HARD MAN. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

/TOTHER, Mr. Stearns says you can’t have any- 

-LyJL thing more, until you’ve paid what you owe now 
— four dollars and ninety-four cents. See, he put it down 
for me to show you,” said a bright-looking lad of about 
nine years, as he entered his mother’s room ; and dropping 
the empty basket, sank on a stool, looking with a disap- 
pointed face up into hers. 

“ I did not think it was so much. I would not have 
sent to ask for further credit if I had. I know he never 
likes the amount to go over five dollars. Saturday night, 
when I am paid, I always pay Mr. Stearns. I suppose he 
is worried because I was not up to time. But you know 
how sick I was,” answered the boy’s mother, turning to a 
woman who sat beside her, busily engaged sewing buttons 
on a shirt. 

“Well, I’d just write him a line, and tell how it was, if 
I was you,” said her companion. 

“Yes, yes, you are right. I will. But I will not ask 
him for credit again until I pay him. I’d be sorry to have 
him think I was not as good as my word. And I’m sorry 
I can’t give you a nice cup of tea and some toast, as I 
intended to. But — ” 

She was interrupted by her friend, saying : 

“ It is all for the best, may be. Oh, of course it is. No 

( 264 ) 


THAT HARD MAN. 


265 


doubt about it. ‘Everything happens for the best,’ was 
one of the first things my poor mother used to try and im- 
press on her children. Now don’t think any more about 
it on my account. I had a right good breakfast before I 
left home. Now send Willie off with the line to Mr. 
Stearns, and then we will finish these shirts in a little 
time.” 

Mrs. Grey found it quite difficult to get together the 
necessary articles for writing the explanatory note. At 
length, with a sheet cut from Willie’s copy-book, and 
the ink borrowed from her next door neighbor, she 
pushed off from the table the pile of shirts, and sat 
down. It took her a long time first to frame in her 
mind the words she thought the best, and quite as long 
to write them down. During that time Willie’s mind 
was very much exercised. Too well he knew no one had 
breakfasted in his home that morning. Not for himself 
"he cared; but for mother and sister Nellie his heart was 
troubled. 

“ Oh ! why can’t I think of some way to make enough 
money to buy some tea and toast? ” he kept saying to him- 
self. And then he went to counting the cost. “ Six cents 
will get a drawing of tea, I know. Then the sugar ; four 
cents for that. Nobody will sell me quarter of a pound for 
less. Oh, if I only could buy it by the large — a whole 
pound — I’d get it for thirteen cents. Well, I can’t help it ; 
must buy as I can pay. What next ? Bread, six cents ; 
and butter, quarter of a pound again. Oh, dear, ten cents 
more I Oh, when I’m rich I will always buy on the large 
— a whole pound every time. Now, how much does all 
come to ? Six and four, that’s ten ; and six, sixteen ; and 
ten again, twenty -six cents. Yes, that’s what the tea and 
toast will cost. But where can I raise so much money ? 
I must; indeed, I must, somehow.” 


266 


THAT HARD MAN. 


The boy’s face told plainly how his young brain was 
working over the great difficulty, and trying to over- 
come it. Suddenly his brow cleared, the closed lips 
parted with a hopeful smile, and he jumped up, ex- 
claiming : 

“ Hurry, mamma, dear. I have only three quarters of 
an hour to attend to business before school time.” 

Yes, I’ve finished now. It is so long since I have 
written a note, it is more difficult than it used to be. But, 
darling, you can’t go without some breakfast,” Mary Grey 
answered, handing the note to her boy. 

Willie caught it from her, and sang out, in a cheery 
voice: 

“ No matter about breakfast for me. I’m all right. I’ll 
be hungry in time for our dinner. A kiss is enough just 
now. Good-by.” 

He caught his hat, snatched a hasty kiss, and was out 
of the door a moment after. 

“What a blessed boy ! Many would have gone off with 
a different face,” said Mrs. Grey’s friend. 

“He is a great comfort. Oh, I’ve two cents. I must 
call him ; he will be hungry, I know. I will tell him to 
buy two rolls as he passes the baker’s.” 

Mrs. Grey, in her haste to call Willie back, swept from 
the little table the cover and everything on it. She was 
out on the doorstep, and heard not the exclamation of 
alarm from the little woman, who snatched up the ink- 
stand. When Mrs. Grey came in, a few minutes after, and 
caught sight of her friend’s face, she cried out : 

“ What has happened ? What ails you, Jane ? ” 

Her companion held up two shirts, across the bosoms and 
sleeves of which most of the ink had fallen. 

“ Heaven help me ! ” cried Mary Grey. “ Troubles never 
come singly. What shall I do now ? ” 


THAT HARD MAN. 


267 


Jane Andrews’ lips parted. She looked toward her 
friend, who cried out: 

“ Don’t for pity’s sake. I know what you want to 
say, Jane — what you always say, no matter what hap- 
pens.” 

AVhile the women stood bewailing the dreadful accident, 
little Nellie had caught the shirts from Mrs. Andrews and 
plunged them into a pail of water. 

‘‘Well, it is awful hard to see it sometimes; but still I 
believe it is all for the best,” said Jane, in a determined 
voice. 

One would scarcely believe it possible for the mild, 
gentle eyes of Mary Grey to flash forth such a look of in- 
dignation. After which they fllled with tears, as she 
cried : 

“ Best ! — best that my children should go hungry — best 
that I shall be deprived of the means to keep them from 
starving ! You know Mr. Dyson. Every one knows he is 
a hard man to work for. I know he will make me pay for 
those shirts, or discharge me; perhaps both.” 

Both women rubbed away diligently, and the dreadful 
spots faded slightly ; but it was useless to hope to get them 
out that day. It would certainly require many hours of 
hot sun to entirely obliterate them. 

“What shall I do? I was to have returned them 
Saturday. They are to be delivered at noon to-day — a 
special order,” groaned Mary. 

“ Put your trust in the Lord, and go carry home the four. 
That’s all you can do now,” Jane Andrews said, and longed 
to conclude with her favorite maxim. But remembering 
Mary’s look, she refrained. 

Willie after receiving the two cents, hurried along, neither 
stopping at the bakery nor Mr. Steams’. On he went, 
many streets further, until he came to a pretty, neat-look- 


268 


THAT HARD MAN. 


ing cottage. Opening the gate, he rang the bell. It was 
soon answered by a pleasant, motherly-looking woman, 
who asked : 

“ What is it, my little man? ” 

“ Please ma’am, I heard you offer Jim Barnes thirty-five 
cents to clear up your yard Saturday afternoon. I will do 
it for twenty -six, if — if — ” 

“ Well, if what ? Speak out. You are Willie Grey, aren’t 
you ? ” asked the smiling woman. 

“ If you pay me now, and let me do it after school, I 
will be here ten minutes after school closes.” 

He looked with such an appealing expression up into 
her eyes, that although she said : 

“ Why, child, that would be a little risky, wouldn’t it ? ” 
she looked kindly on him, and Willie felt he had much to 
hope for. 

“No, ma’am. It is a safe bargain. I’ll do it, if I live 
till this afternoon. If you will only give me twenty-six 
cents, I will be so thankful,” he said, the appealing look 
deepening in his eyes. 

“ I will do it,” the good woman said, and stopped Willie’s 
thanks by asking, “ How is it, when Jim wanted fifty cents, 
you are willing to take about half as much ? ” 

“ More than half, a little. Oh, Jim don’t know the worth 
of money. He don’t know how much twenty-six cents 
will buy. He don’t know how to spend it right,” Willie 
said, with a manly look. Clasping in his hand tightly his 
prize, he was about running off, when his friend called 
him back to say : 

“Willie, I hope you will spend it rightly.” 

He turned. The eyes that were dancing, the face beam- 
ing, grew earnest, and so full of love, as he said, softly, 

“ For mother, ma’am,” and hastened away. 

“ God bless him ! ” she said, and was still standing on 


THAT HAPwD MAN. 269 

the door-step when a buggy stopped before it, and a gen- 
tleman jumped out. Coming up, he said : 

“Mrs. Lovering, I feel rather uneasy about the children. 
The woman I have to take care of them has not much 
experience. Will you come with me and see what ails 
them, and if they need a physician ? ” 

“They need a mother’s care, poor little dears! Cer- 
tainly I will go, and be ready in two minutes,” answered 
Mrs. Lovering, hurrying in. 

Mr. Dyson waited outside, and pondered on Mrs. Lover- 
ing’s words. He had been thinking just so himself several 
times lately, when he could spare the time from business 
to think of anything else. 

True to her word, Mrs. Lovering was ready in the men- 
tioned time. 

Willie Grey was just coming out of Mr. Stearns’ with his 
little bundles as they passed. He looked up, smiled and 
raised his hat. 

“ That’s the best boy I know,” Mrs. Lovering said ; and 
when Mr. Dyson asked : 

“ Who is he? ” she answered : 

“ Why, the widow Grey’s son. She works for you.” 

Strange, yet so it was, that to both Mr. Dyson and Mrs. 
Lovering came the thought that the widow Grey would be 
a good mother for the motherless children. 

Mrs. Lovering related the incident which occurred just 
before Mr. Dyson’s arrival, and by that time they were 
before his door. 

The little children Mrs. Lovering found really ill. The 
physician was summoned, and pronounced the malady, 
what the good woman feared — scarlet fever. 

Ten minutes of nine, Willie stood smiling before his 
mother. Seeing her troubled face, thrusting his parcels 
into her hands, he said, in a glad voice : 


270 


THAT HA ED MAIS". 


“It’s all right. You will be stronger when you get a 
good cup of tea. It’s my treat. All paid for. I must 
run, the bell is ringing. I will be late home ; got to do 
some work for Mrs. Lovering. Good-by.” 

Again he was off, with blessings following him. 

Nellie prepared the tea and toast by the time her mother 
and Mrs. Andrews had finished the shirts. 

Willie would have been sadly disappointed, could he 
have seen the grave faces that gathered round his treat. 
However, when she arose from the table, Mrs. Grey said : 

“ Willie was right, dear boy ! I do feel stronger in mind, 
as well as body. Now I must get ready. Oh, mercy ! I 
would sooner face a cannon’s mouth than Mr. Dyson. I 
know he will be in an ill-humor before I get there; and 
when I do — ” 

The pale face grew paler with thoughts of the dreaded 
interview. 

Just then they heard a vehicle of some kind stop in 
front of the house. Mrs. Gr^y, looking out of the window, 
exclaimed : 

“ Lord help me ! It is Mr. Dyson.” 

An instant after a knock was heard on the door. Mary 
Grey, pale and trembling, opened it. As she raised her 
eyes appealingly to his, Mr. Dyson 'wondered he had 
never noticed how very pretty the little woman was be- 
fore. He said : 

“ Mrs. Grey, I called to see about those shirts. I thought 
something must have happened to — ” He stopped, notic- 
ing her agitation, and exclaimed : 

“ You are ill ! Go in, madam. Don’t be standing here.” 
And taking her gently by the arm, he led her to the lounge, 
when she burst into tears, saying : 

“ Have pity ! Oh, Mr. Dyson, I’ve spoiled two of the 
shirts ! ” Not daring to glance at him, she w^ent on : “I 


THAT HARD MAN. 


271 


know yon will discharge me, of course, and make me pay 
for the shirts, too. But, please don’t take it all at once ! 
Pay me some, and let me work just till I pay for the 
others.” 

Finding he did not speak some dreadful harsh words, 
Mar}^ raised her eyes timidly to his. 

He was looking at her, not a shade of anger on his brow. 

“Am I such a terrible man that I frighten poor women 
almost out of their senses ? ” he asked, a really pleasant 
smile on his face. 

“ Folks say you are dreadful hard,” Mary answered, in 
a low voice. 

“ Humph ! Well, perhaps I have been ; hut business is 
business, and I have little time for anything else. I’m not 
sorry you spoiled those shirts, for it has shown me what a 
timid, gentle little woman you are. You would not be 
unkind or hard on another woman’s children. Now I 
have not the least idea of discharging you. On the con- 
trary, I want to engage you permanently. Will you come 
and take care of my little children ? They are sick, and 
need a kind, loving hand to tend them.” 

“ Come I Certainly I will. Oh, thank you ! How kind 
you are ! I will get ready now,” exclaimed Mary, starting 
up to go into the other room, when Mr. Dyson called: 

“ Stop a moment. There are some little arrangements 
to make, I guess. You’ll have to close up here, and— 
and— Well, who do you prefer to da the business ? ” 

Mary Grey turned and looked inquiringly into the 
smiling face. Mr. Dyson continued : 

“ What parson, I mean, to marry us ? ” 

“ Marry ! ” exclaimed Mary, 'sinking again on the lounge, 
her face crimsoning then. 

“ Yes, marry. Didn’t I tell you a permanent engage- 
ment? How else can you be a mother to my little ones? 


272 


THAT HARD MAN. 


Come, speak out I I’d no idea it would take so long. I 
don’t want the time lost. You have known me six months. 
Do you like me any better, or not as well, on acquaint-! 
ance ? ” asked Mr. Dyson. 

“ Better. Oh, yes. But — ” 

Mr. Dyson interrupted her : 

“Never mind. Will you have me? We will settle 
everything as you wish afterward.” 

“ But the children — mine ? What about them ? ” 

“ I will be a father to yours, when you are mother to 
mine. And — Well, I will do the courting at odd times, 
when business is dull, and I have plenty of time. I know 
women like to be courted ; so it will do as well after mar- 
riage, won’t it? And then I’ll not have given you the 
chance to throw at me, what so many men have to hear : 
^All before marriage, and none after.’ Now, say quick: 
Will you have me ? ” 

Mary Grey looked into his eyes earnestly a moment, 
and then answered : 

“Yes.” 

Mr. Dyson clasped her hand, and with an earnest 

“ God bless you I May He deal with me as I do with 
you and yours. Now about the arrangements ? ” he asked. 

“ Suit yourself,” Mary answered. 

“ Thank you. Then I will come to take you to your 
new home this afternoon, at six o’clock.” 

Mary opened her lips to utter a cry of remonstrance, 
but he shook his head and hurried out. 

As the door closed after him Mary stepped back 
into the other room and stood before her friend. Jane 
had heard most of the conversation, and when Mary 
asked : 

“ What do you think of me ? ” 

“ I think in future you will let me say ^ Everything 


THAT HARD MAN. 


273 


happens for the best,’ because mother always said so ; and 
now I know it for myself.” 

Willie finished his work for Mrs. Lovering, after which 
that kind woman went with him to his new home, where 
his noble qualities were fully appreciated. And he had 
never after any reason to doubt the truth of Jane An- 
drews’ favorite maxim. And she, good woman, became 
firmer than ever in her faith, when a year after she mar- 
ried the foreman of Mr. Dyson’s establishment. Con- 
stantly she proves her gratitude to the kind Father, who 
brightened her own dreariness by throwing little rays 
of sunshine across the darkened paths of those within 
her reach. 

17 


UNDER THE TRAIN. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

^^ITT is no use, mother, not a bit of use to try. You 

X might as well attempt to catch and chain the wind 
in its wildest course, as to stay Abner Markley in his. 
Better let him alone.” 

“ Don’t talk so, husband. I must, indeed I must. His 
mother would have tried to save my boy, in the same 
situation, I know. It may be as you say, but I’ll try all 
the same ; and if I fail — no, no, I must not fail ; I can’t 
bear to use that word. Well, I’ll do my duty, and trust 
to God, for the result,” answered Ruth Mild, as she wiped 
away the tears that stole gently down her sweet motherly 
face. 

“ You don’t think of the danger to our own boy. If you 
bring him here, Ruth, God only knows where it might 
end. You forget.” And Abel Mild glanced with an 
anxious eye through the open door into the next room, 
where sat a little maiden, the miniature picture of her 
mother — fairer and fresher in coloring though. 

“ Oh, Abel ! that child, little more than a baby ! ” 

“In her sixteenth year, and he handsome enough to 
make a girl forget mother, father, and the whole world, for 
him. Don’t do it, mother. It is a hereditary sin, from 
father to son. Would you see your child the wife of a 
drunkard ? ” 

( 274 ) 


UNDER THE TRAIN. 


275 


A shiver, a little cry of terror, and for a moment the 
sweet face paled. She hesitated, and Abel Mild thought 
he had triumphed. 

“ No. God will spare me that, I trust — I know. And 
so I will trust Him — aye, ‘ even though He slay me.’ ” 

“And offer your own lamb to the sacrifice !” Abel said, 
in a tone that told the dark forebodings that possessed his 
spirit. 

Again she faltered, and leant, with her head buried in 
her hands, as if praying. Again her eyes were looking 
into Abel’s, clear, and showing no doubts in her heart. 

“ He knoweth my heart — its weakness and its strength. 
He will not try me beyond my power to bear. If you love 
me, Abel, say no more. Never before, in the twenty years 
of our married life, have I murmured against your will. 
Now I feel that I am doing His,” she said, raising her eyes 
upward. 

There was an expression on her face more beautiful than 
Abel had ever seen, even in those days when he thought 
there was not as lovely a face in the world— an expression 
so holy, so trusting, that Abel went up to her, drew her 
head on his bosom, and kissing her, said : 

“ May He you trust bless and reward you, Ruth, my 
dear, good little wife. Forget what I’ve said, and go your 
way, which has ever been the right one.” 

“ Thank you, Abel. You have made me happier. A'tid 
now I will go. He leaves his office at three o’clock, dines 
at four ; if I start now, I will be there just the right time. 
He will have finished, and be in his room.” 

Abner Markley, as Abel Mild had said, was handsome 
enough to win the heart of any woman. He was sitting 
in his room, as Ruth hoped to find him. And when he 
jumped up to welcome her, she thought of her husband’s 
words. 


276 


UNDER THE TRAIN. 


“ What an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Mild ! ” he said, 
placing her in the comfortable chair from which he had 
just arisen. 

“Yes? I’m glad to find you disengaged. I have 
another pleasure awaiting you. See ! Looking over my 
treasures I found this, and have brought it for you — to 
give you, if you wish.” 

She held toward him a little velvet case, which he 
hastened to take and open. 

Ruth Mild anxiously watched his face while he gazed 
on the miniature he held. 

“ My mother ! Is it? Yes, I know it ! Oh, thank you, 
my dear Mrs. Mild. How very, very beautiful! But I 
cannot remember her thus. Here her eyes are so laughing, 
her lips ready to break into smiles. I’m glad to have 
this to look at ; for always, when thinking of her, I can 
only call up a face, beautiful enough, but oh I sad, so very 
sad I her eyes looking as though they had shed oceans of 
tears. And she once looked like this ? ” 

“ Yes, my boy. She sat for that in her wedding dress, 
a week before she became your father’s wife. I was her 
bride’s maid. She was the merriest girl in the village 
when your father won her from us, and carried her off to 
the city to live.” 

“Mrs. Mild” — he turned his eyes from the beautiful 
picture to hers, and asked — “ what changed my mother so 
terribly ? Was my father not kind ? ” 

She hesitated. 

“ Tell me — all. I remember nothing of father. I have 
been told I was only five years old when he died. Was it 
his death — ” 

“No, no; but — ” 

“ Speak freely, Mrs. Mild.” 

“May I? \¥ell, it was the manner of your father’s 


UNDER THE TRAIN. 


277 


death which broke her heart; but it had been terribly 
wounded before, Abner. She was a drunkard’s wife.” 

The good woman’s voice had sunk so low he had to lean 
forward to catch the words, and then started back with a 
wounded cry, which caused her to say : 

“ I’ve hurt you. Forgive me.” 

“Yes, yes. But go on. Tell me all. Say it as you 
choose,” he said, sinking back into his chair, and covering 
his face with one hand, the other still holding his mother’s 
picture. 

She talked on, picturing to him in graphic colors the 
jmung bride leaving them, so happy, so trusting ; of the 
first surprise and mortification ; the dreadful fears when 
she was no longer surprised ; then the suffering all alone — 
she could confide that sorrow to none ; of hope entering 
her heart again when she watched for the “ little one’s 
coming.” 

The reformation which brought for a brief time such 
holy happiness, as over the little one’s — the baby boy’s — 
cradle she stood with him she trusted in again — again to 
be disappointed. On and on to the violent death she told 
him, and then Ruth Mild pleaded as only a mother can 
plead. And when she finished by saying : 

“ Yes, my boy, the last time we met, she held you in 
her arms, and pressing her pale lips to yours, she said : 

“ ‘ Oh, Ruth, if I could take my darling with me, I would 
gladly, gladly close my eyes to earth ! But if I leave him, 
shall I ever find him again? Will he come? — Oh God, 
will my boy come to me up there?” 

Ruth Mild’s voice was trembling, scarcely audible, as 
she repeated the dying mother’s words. 

Abner’s bosom was convulsed with emotion. He did 
not try to conceal it as he sobbed forth : 

“ Yes, yes, mother, with God’s help I will come to you.” 


278 


UNDEK THE TRAIN. 


Ruth Mild had conquered. Abner ^larkley became one 
of her household. In every way she endeavored to hold 
him firm. Little Alice, with her dove-like' eyes, was a 
source of deep and pure pleasure to the young man. She 
was so different from every other girl he knew — so gentle, 
so artless and childlike. Hours that used to be spent in 
drinking and club-rooms were passed reading to her, tell- 
ing of the wonders of the old world, over which he had 
travelled, or in singing with her. 

Those were happy evenings to all. Father Mild forgot 
his fears, as he watched the young folks and listened to 
the beautiful music they made — Alice at the piano, Abner 
with his flute, and the old man’s second self, young Abel, 
with his violin. A year passed thus, bringing Abner, as 
he felt, nearer to mother. The tongues of many with their 
dark predictions had ceased, and those who had trusted 
pronounced Abner Markley saved. 


“ I wish I could excuse myself from this party to-night,’^ 
Abner said. And little A Hie asked : 

‘‘ Must you go ? ” 

“ I think so. I did not intend to. I’d made up my 
mind to send an excuse, but the Judge came into my room 
this afternoon and insisted. You know he is our chief, 
and it is a respect due him to accept his invitation ; but I 
will not stay long. There are some pretty wild fellows 
going— determined to have a ‘ time,’ as they say ; but I’ll 
slip from them, and hasten back home to you, my little 
dove-eyed darling Allie here. Sit up for me; I have 
something to tell you, and something to beg for,” he 
whispered. And then, as she stood in the door, he said : 

“ There, run in out of the cold. I must be more careful 
of you. Stop a moment. Kiss me, Allie? ” 

She drew back. He knew that her cheeks were crim- 
soned, although it was too dark to see. 




UNDER THE TRAIN. 279 

“ Mother will not care ; kiss me, darling. I will tell her 
all to-morrow. Thank you. Now run in,” he said. 

And she darted off to shed a few happy tears, and watch 
and wait for his coming. 

‘‘ God bless her ! I wonder if mother is watching over 
us to-night ? I wish she were alive, to know my darling,” 
Abner said, as the door closed on Allie’s retreating form. 

It was a brilliant throng that gathered in the saloon of 
Judge Armstead. Abner Markley was a universal favorite, 
and all welcomed him warmly. 

That party was decidedly the party of the season. The 
music grand, the supper a perfect success. • How the wine 
sparkled ! And some of the women’s eyes brightened, I’m 
sorry to tell, as they sipped the tempting glass. 

Abner Markley forgot for the time the dove-like eyes of 
Allie, as he looked into the bright, flashing black ones of 
a girl whose influence he had known before. And when 
she held to him a glass of champagne, saying : 

“ How can you resist? take it,” he replied. 

“ I could resist the wine, but not you.” And taking it 
from her, drained the glass — another and another. 

The hours passed on. Allie watched and waited. 

Not until he had placed his tempter in her carriage did 
Abner start for home, and then he had his senses sufficient 
to know he could not return to Allie as he was. 


In the gray light of morning, when little Allie, weary with 
watching, had fallen asleep with her pale face against the 
window, there came a slow, heavy tread along the pave- 
ment. The door bell aroused her from a frightful dream. 
She started, confused and terrified, to listen. 

Strange voices reached her ear, talking in awed tones. 
She sped on to the passage to catch the words, 

“ Found dead on the track.” 


280 


UNDER THE TRAIN. 


Down the steps, with a wild cry, and beside the bier she 
fell; her arms clasped about the dead — her dead — she 
cried : 

“No, no, not dead I Abner, speak to Allie, your Allie. 
See ; IVe waited for you as you bade me. Abner ! Abner! 
— Father, has he fainted ? ” turning her face, with an ap- 
pealing look, toward her father, who, shaking his head 
sorrowfully, tried to take her away. 

“ Dead ! ” she cried, in a tone that brought the tears to 
the rough men’s eyes, and they turned off as Abel Mild 
lifted his child away and placed her in her mother’s arms. 

“ I do wish we had not had wines last night,” said Mrs. 
Armstead the next morning, while sipping her coffee. 

“ Why not ? ” asked her husband. 

“ Why, did you not notice young Markley used con- 
siderable, and felt the effects too ? You know he had given 
it up for a year. You remember I suggested we should 
dispense with it.” 

M “ Nonsense I Give up a social custom for the sake of 
one fellow who is too weak to resist I I shall never do it.” 

“ Mother 1 ” exclaimed Fred Armstead, rushing in — 
“ Mother, Abner Markley is dead I — found dead across the 
railroad track. Concussion of the brain, they say.” 

Concussion of the brain, they say 1 Can that decision 
of the physicians bring relief to the conscience of those 
who placed the wine before him, or of hers who held it to 
his lips ? It could not to mine. There would be a con- 
stant, endless whisper of “ murdered ” in my ear, sinking 
to the very depth of my heart. I would sooner be the 
stricken little Allie, or Abner, cold and dead, than be either 
of the hospitable hosts, who, for the sake of one soul, 
could not give up a social custom, or the vain girl whose 
thoughtlessness or indifference, to say the least, won him 
to death. 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

HREE little faces were pressed close to the window, 



JL watching with eager interest the great brown stone 
house across the way. 

There were little children at the windows .of that house, 
too ; bright, beautiful, rosy, merry little ones they were, 
so different to those in the humble frame opposite, who, 
pinched and pale and sad, had a wistful look in their 
sweet eyes as they saw the happiness of those they were 
watching. 

“ Oh ! ain’t it jolly for them? And ain’t it nice to be rich, 
and have lots of friends ? ” exclaimed little Georgie, who 
for the time forgot his own dreariness in seeing the joy of 
his neighbors. 

Oh, yes, indeed. That big box is full as ever it can be 
with goodies and dolls, ain’t it, Georgie ? ” said little Evie, 
as the expressman, with the assistance of a servant, carried 
in a large box. 

Christmas is grand over the way. I know that boy 
will have a gun, and a sword, and a drum. Oh, mamma, 
mamma, will Christmas ever come so to us?” Georgie 
asked, with a longing look in his great blue eyes. 

The mother’s lips quivered, tears filled her eyes, and for 
a moment she could not answer. Georgie saw his words 
had made his darling mother sad, and springing into her 


( 281 ) 


282 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


lap, he clasped his arms about her neck, and pressing 
kisses upon her pale face, said : { 

“We don’t mind if we are not rich, mamma! Do we, 
girls? We can wait for a good time, until I get to be a 1 
big man. Then, mamma, we will have it. Don’t cryj 
please, don’t.” 

The mother forced back her tears, saying : i 

“ My little man, as long as my darlings are well and , 
with me, I am content. But, oh, I do wish some one j 
would send my little ones something to make their 
Christmas merry.” ! 

“ Mamma, God won’t forget us. Oh, I’m sure he won’t. , 
Something good will come to us, I think. If I could only i 
get well — I mean, if I could run about with the other chil- 
dren — that would be the best thing I could have for my | 
Christmas,” said May — ^lovely, patient little May. She : 
was an angelic child. Hopelessly crippled since infancy, i 
never playing with other children, she was, when only i 
eight years old, so full of thoughts beautiful, good and ; 
wise, that her mother felt she was not long for earth. And ^ 
though from her suffering and loveliness she was dearer 
than the others to the mother’s heart, she often felt as if 
she must loosen her clasping arms from about her darling, 
and let her flee away where she could wander about with 
the little ones, in the home where all the suffering chil- 
dren grow well and happy. 

Mary Grayson stole quietly out while the little ones 
were prattling. Dropping on her knees beside her bed, 
she wept bitterly. 

Oh, how hard it was to have those little ones really suf- 
fering for the comforts she could never give them 1 May, 
most of all, needed little delicacies. Oh, would better days 
never come to them ? 

Three years before, her husband, having saved sufficient 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


283 


to support his little family for two years, had left them, 
going with a party to Australia, promising to be home 
with a little fortune in two years. The time rolled slowly 
by, but he came not, nor one -word since of him. The 
little money left was all gone, and Mary and her little 
ones were living on the small amount procured by her 
needle. 

“ It snows ! it snows ! Now, mamma, fix me up 
as warm as you can. I’m going to run across the 
way to the big house, and ask them to let me clear 
off their pavement when it has done snowing. I’ll be in 
time. Oh, if I could only get ten pavements to clear off, 
I’d have lots of money ; more than enough for a tur- 
key ! ” exclaimed Georgie, his eyes dancing with great 
expectation. 

“Ten pavements to clear off with these poor little 
hands ! Why, little love, that will be work enough for a 
great strong man,” the mother said. 

As she wrapped the warm scarf about his neck, and but- 
toned the well-patched coat over the brave little heart, she 
thanked God for the great blessing he was. 

“ My love, have you noticed those little faces at the 
window across the street?” asked Philip Austin, the 
owner of the brown stone house, and pretty bright chil- 
dren in it. 

“ Not particularly. Why? ” returned Mrs. Austin. 

“Well, to me they have a very touching expression. 
Now look ! See how they watch this house ! ” 

“ Papa, the boy that is most all the time with them has 
just gone down from our door,” said Willie Austin. 

“ Ring the bell, and inquire what he wanted, my dear,” 
said IVIr. Austin. 

Another moment and a servant entered. Mrs. Austin 
made the desired inquiry. 


284 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


The man, smiling, answered : 

“ He wanted to engage clearing off the pavement, when 
the snow has stopped falling.” 

“ Poor little fellow ! And what did you say to him, 
James? ” added Mr. Austin. 

“ I laughed at him, and told him he had better go down 
on the wharf and engage in helping to unload vessels, sir,” 
replied the man. 

“You ought not to have spoken to him so, James. 
Poor child ! I wish you had let me know of his being 
here.” 

“ Yes, papa, you would not have let him go away with 
such a sad face, I know,” said Willie. 

“ James, keep a look-out for him. Tell him to come 
and help you, and pay him well. He is a manly little 
fellow, and I think would rather work than receive money 
without.” 

“ Yes, sir,” James answered. 

Mr. Austin, turning to his wife, said : 

“ I wish, my dear, either to-day or to-morrow, so it may 
reach them by Christmas day, you would make up a bas- 
ket or box of such things as will please, and comfort, too, 
those little ones, and send it over with the kind wishes 
of ours.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, do, mamma. How nice it will be ! ” the 
children exclaimed. 

Just then a carriage stopped before the house, from 
which a gentleman sprang out, and ran quickly up the 
steps. Willie sang out : 

“ Uncle Charley ! Hurrah ! Uncle Charley has come ! ” 

Another moment, and a handsome, middle-aged man 
entered the room, catching first Mrs. Austin, and then the 
little ones, in a loving embrace. 

In the joy of Uncle Charley’s coming, the little ones 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


285 


across the street were quite forgotten for that day ; 
and the next, Mrs. Austin was so busy with prepara- 
tions to make Christmas day one of more than usual 
rejoicing, in honor of Uncle Charley’s return, that she had 
no time to think of the poor little ones. Once Willie 
exclaimed : 

“ Oh, mamma, you have not sent over the presents to 
those little children.” 

Mrs. Austin was annoyed at the reminder, but said : 

“ Dear me I I had quite forgotten. There are 
so many really necessary calls on my time and 
memory, I can hardly be expected to remember such 
things. But to-morrow will do just as well. I’ll go 
out this evening and purchase some little presents for 
them.” 

Christmas morn dawned brightly. What a merry set 
of little ones the Austins were ! Scarcely any breakfast 
was eaten. They could not spare the time from the beau- 
tiful and almost countless presents — presents from papa, 
mamma. Uncle Charley, aunts, cousins and friends in- 
numerable. 

The youngest of them, Lilly, a little three-year-old fairy, 
stood on a chair arranging her doll at the window for 
passers to admire. Presently she sang out in a pretty, 
lisping voice : 

“ Oh, Willie, come see ! Is that a Christmas box? ” 

Willie bounded to the window. A moment, and he 
cried out : 

“ Oh, no, no ! It’s a little coffin.” 

All hastened to the window then, with awed and solemn 
faces. After a few moments Mr. Austin said : 

“ My dear, did you send over some things to those little 
ones ? ” 

“Oh, no; I intended to this morning. I thought it 


286 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


would be just as well. I have had so much to think of,” 
answered Mrs. Austin, in a tone of regret. 

“ Too late now to comfort one of them,” Mr. Austin said, 
sorrowfully. 

Yes, too late to comfort little May. 

For three or four days previous to Christmas she had 
failed much, grown visibly weaker. When the dawn of 
that blessed day came she cried out : 

“ Mamma, I’m so glad ! I’ll soon be well ! See — I can 
stand up ! ” 

For a second she stood up on her feet — her hands 
clasped — an expression of unearthly joy on her beautiful, 
pale face. 

The mother sprang forward, clasped her arm around 
and drew back to her bosom only May’s little lifeless 
body. 

Scarcely had she laid tenderly down the loved form 
when Georgie’s Christmas greeting reached her ear : 

“May, May, where are you? See! here is your 
Christmas wreath I ” 

He ran joyously in. The smiles fled — a frightened look 
from the pale, cold face to his mother, so tearful and sad, 
and Georgie cried : 

“ What is the matter, mamma? Won’t. May wake up ? ” 

In vain she tried to comfort him, and explain how 
happy May was, away with the angel children. But 
Georgie could only understand that May was gone 
from them; and burying his little face in the pillow 
on which her dear head rested, he wept himself to 
sleep. 

A shadow had stolen over the merry folks of Austin 
house. The children watched with anxious faces the 
closed window where their little neighbors used to sit, 
and wondered for which the little coffin was. 


A CHKISTMA8 BOX. 


287 


Mrs. Austin’s pleasure was marred, for a great regret 
was in her heart. Constantly came the thought : 

“ If I only had remembered those poor little ones ! ” 

“ It is never too late to do right and good. Send to the 
children left, and inquire if we may do anything to help 
them in their trouble. Do you know their names, my 
dear? ” said Mr. Austin. 

“ Grayson, I believe. I think she is a widow — ” 

“ Grayson ! ” exclaimed Uncle Charley. “ Tell me more 
of them.” 

“ The little fellow told me his papa had gone to Aus- 
tralia, and — ” 

Ere Willie had finished his story Uncle Charley was 
crossing the street, to the great astonishment of his sister 
and brother-in-law. 

Two hours passed before he returned. Then he told 
them that the father of these little ones was his dearest 
friend; that his return home was principally to find 
George Grayson’s widow and children, and bear to them 
the little fortune he had made. 

‘‘And I must pay to those he loved the debt of grati- 
tude I owed to him,” said Uncle Charley. “ He nursed me 
through the fever, and when all others pronounced me 
dead, he still worked on, and with God’s blessing saved 
me.” 

“And his loved ones so near to me, and so needy ! Oh, 
if I had only known it ! ” said Mrs. Austin. 

And when her brother told more of those little ones, 
particularly of the only Christmas gift which came to little 
May — the Christmas wreath that Georgie had given her — 
and which was then lying on her little coffin, Mrs. Austin 
shed tears of regret for her neglect. 

“Oh, I wish I had sent them something. I might 
have contributed to make a little mere comfortable the 


288 


A CHRISTMAS BOX. 


last days of that little one’s life. But I forgot,” she 
said. 

And when constantly came the thought of little May’s 
only gift, the beautiful wreaths and garlands which 
decorated her rooms seemed to lose their bright, cheer- 
ful look. Everything was darkened by the heavy cloud 
which shadowed her heart that Christmas day. 

That our happiness be not clouded thus, nor the 
beautiful Christmas wreaths lose to us their cheering 
aspect, we will remember some little ones within our 
reach, if not across the street, whose friends are so few, 
and whose wants are so many. 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 

A THANKSGIVING STORY. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

I HAD been taught that the Osborns were a very dis- 
agreeable set, and I must never play on their pave- 
ment, nor look into their windows as I passed the house. 
Now you all know how very tempting and sweet is for- 
bidden fruit. So the windows of the Osborn house 
were the only ones in the whole street I cared to look 
into. 

From my window I could see so well the one opposite, 
■where so often sat a handsome youth. When I was only 
ten, he was about fifteen. He sat at his studies, and I was 
always studying, too — ^but my subject was ever the same, 
the youth across the way, and wondering why I could 
not laugh and talk to him, as to a dozen others in our 
street. 

When fourteen years old, I was sent away to school. 
When I came home for the vacation, of course all my 
acquaintances came to welcome my return. 

A general favorite, and mamma’s particular one, Charley 
Nelson, gave me a complimentary entertainment. During 
the evening, he said : 

“ I invited Herbert Osborn to come over, but he declined. 
How strange, Fannie, that you do not know him ! But he 
does not seem to care much for ladies’ society.” 

18 ( 289 ) 


290 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 


Just then May Foster came up and said: 

“ Charley, do go over, and try to bring Herbert over here 
with you ! ” 

Charley looked at me for instructions. But mamma 
stood near, and having heard the whole conversation, said, 
in her usually calm but very decided way : 

“ No, Charley, I do not wish Fannie to increase her list 
of acquaintances.” 

Then turning to May, she said kindly : 

^ “ Excuse me for disappointing you. May, dear, but it 
would not be agreeable.” 

Oh, how my hopes were crushed then ! I had thought 
to meet Herbert during the vacation. 

So two years more rolled by, and then I came home to 
remain ; school days were over. I was seventeen. And, 
strange to tell, had had no romantic attachment that had ever 
been heard of. How the girls marvelled ! Ah ! but could 
they have looked way down into my heart, they would 
have seen the image of some one enshrined there. 

The next winter mamma’s health was very feeble, and 
my sister came home to stay for a while. Her husband’s 
business was in a neighboring city, so he could often be 
with us. The gloom that had gathered over our home 
since mamma’s illness was soon chased away by the merry 
voices and winning little ways of the children. There 
were three of them — the oldest a boy, Frank, who was a 
very apt scholar in all mischief. Katy was a matter-of-fact, 
truthful little thing of six years, and had the most implicit 
faith in everything Frankie said. 

But Susie, the youngest, the pet, the darling of the 
house, was very different. I have often marvelled at the 
perseverance and determination of that little four-year-old 
foiry child. 

One morning Frank came, bringing Susie in screaming. 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 


291 


kicking and scratching; and resigning her to my arms, 
said : 

“ Only think ! She was standing over at the Osborns’ 
window, talking to them ! Those horrid folks ! ” 

“ I know they are nice, good folks, and I will go again — 
many times. Now, sir ! ” 

Frankie went off to tell his mother, and returned with 
her. He stated the case, and after explaining to Susie how 
wrong it was, her mamma said : 

“ Now, dear, you will not go again, will you?” 

“I told them I would come — and '^deed I will, too!” 
The words came slow, distinct, and in a determined 
tone. 

I saw sister turn aside to smile. I knew she was proud 
of that spirited little love, and pleased with that trait of 
truthfulness in her character, although she was going to 
chide. 

“ But, Susie, they are not pleasant folk. I do not know 
them, and do not wish you to. You must never go 
again.” 

do know them, mamma ; and ’deed they are nice, and 
I must go, mamma ! ” 

During the days of mother’s illness there was less time 
for watching Susie. I knew she was over, and often in 
with the Osborns, and I was glad of it. 

After a while neither father, sister, nor even Frankie, 
felt like scolding. All thoughts save of love and kindness 
were awed to silence. Mother had gone from us. 

Susie and father grew nearer to each other after that. 
He loved her best, I think, because she bore our mother’s 
name. They were almost inseparable. Yet a little while, 
each day, she would slip away ; I knew where. 

Thanksgiving was near— only four days off. Sister was 
with the cook, superintending the cake and pie making. 


292 


HER OWN SWEET WILL* 


Passing by the kitchen, I was attracted by hearing Henny, 
the cook, exclaim : 

‘‘Dat chile ain’t made for dis yer yerth: mine I tell 
you ! ” 

Stepping in to know what Susie had said, or done, to 
call forth the exclamation from Henny, I saw sister was 
annoyed by the remark ; so I said : 

“ Why, Henny, if the good Lord took all the smart and 
good children away, I think this earth would be a poor 
place to remain in, with only stupid and bad people to 
keep company with each other. But what has she been 
saying?” 

“ She is insisting I shall give her a pie, and some cake, 
to carry over to those people across the street ! It will 
never do! What would they think? Indeed, Susie, I 
cannot, dear I ” said sister. 

“ Mamma, indeed you will. Don’t you know there is a 
grandma over there ? like thfe grandma of mine that’s gone 
away? Grandma Osborn” — my sister really groaned out 
at that — “ might go away too, and see ours up there 1 ” 
And here Susie looked up with such an angelic expression, 
and pointed with her dear little finger, which made me 
think of Henny’s recent exclamation, and involuntarily I 
caught her in my arms. For a instant she stopped, and 
looking at me in surprise, kissed me, and went on talk- 
ing: 

‘‘And wouldn’t you like our grandma to hear from us, 
and know we are good and nice to everybody ? Please 
give me the cake and pie ? ” 

AVho could resist the darling ? Ah I how truly she was 
touching all hearts then I Father had heard the last ap- 
peal, and coming in, he caught Susie up and said: 

“You shall have them, pet. Give them to her, Anna. 
How strange to be taught by a baby’s will! ” And then I 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 


293 


heard him murmur, “ Unless ye become as one of these 
and again, of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 

The cake and pie were fixed for her. Taking up the 
pie, she tried to hold it with one tiny hand — ^thinking to 
manage the cake with the other. In vain she tried, first 
one, and then the other. Wearied at last, she turned and 
said : 

“ Henny, you may help me ! My hands ain’t strong. 
They get tired too soon. Susie’s tired too, now.” 

Henny returned, and 'said they wanted Susie to stay a 
while. 

A couple of hours passed, when some one rang. Henny 
was busy, and thinking it was probably the servant bring- 
ing Susie home, I opened the door, and there before me 
stood Herbert Osborn, with Susie in his arms. With per- 
fect ease he placed the sleeping child in mine, and said : 

“ We fear she is sick. She fell asleep in my arms ; and 
I did not wish to disturb her, so I brought her myself. 
She has considerable fever, and mother is very anxious. 
You will excuse me, but Susie has grown very dear to us. 
And mother bade me say, she thinks a physician should 
be consulted immediately.” 

What with fright and surprise, I could scarcely utter the 
simple, “ Thank you, sir,” as he bowed and left me. 

All that night and the next day she was unconscious, 
raving in fever, and calling first one and then another of 
the Osborn family. Oh, that fearful, terrible fever! It 
raged on until Thanksgiving morn. The doctor shook his 
head, he could not speak his fear. 

She lay so still, so pale, we could scarcely tell she 
breathed. She was sleeping ; and when our doctor came 
again, he said : 

“ When she awakes she will know us, I think.” 

It was a glorious day, so balmy and bright that we sat 


294 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 


with the windows opened, through which came the sounds 
of the Thanksgiving anthem from the church near by. 

I think the music aroused the little sleeper. After a 
slight movement, she opened her sweet eyes, and mur- 
mured : 

“ Mamma ! 

A grateful smile beamed on our doctor’s face, and he 
fervently said : 

“ Thank God ! ” 

And every heart echoed his prayer. 

During the day she whispered, feebly trying to raise her 
little arms : 

“ Please take me across the street ? ” 

Again and again she repeated the petition. 

“We must have them here,” the doctor said. And 
Susie’s papa was sent to ask them to come. 

Father met and welcomed them. By Susie’s bedside 
their hands were clasped in reconciliation and thanks- 
giving. 

I thought our darling’s eyes lingered longer, beamed 
with a light of deeper love, when she met those of Herbert, 
and murmuring : 

“ Susie’s glad, now ; so glad I ” she sank to a sleep, sweet 
and refreshing. 

The old folk came frequently during the days of her 
convalescing, but Herbert came no more. Every day, 
however, he sent fruit, flowers, and little tokens of his love 
and kindness. 

When Susie grew strong enough, father carried her in 
his arms across the street. 

A little longer, and with her hand clasped in mine, we 
walked on the pavement. One afternoon, while thus 
engaged, Susie’s bright eyes spied Herbert at his window. 
She called to him, putting out her little hands. In a 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 295 

moment more he was with us. Between us, her hands 
clasped by each, she walked along, chatting merrily, when 
suddenly she stopped, and exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! see that beautiful pigeon — no, bird ! I’ll get it ! ” 

Then, loosening her hand from mine, she still held Her- 
bert’s, and turning to me, she said : 

‘‘Here, Aunt Fannie, hold Herbert’s hand, and keep 
him until I come back. Hold him tight, or he might run 
away ! ” 

She laughed, and trotted across the street. 

Our hands were clasped a moment. His eyes sought 
mine. An eager, searching look, and each had found the 
long-hidden truth! Each heart had awakened and was 
rejoicing in its new life when Susie returned, bearing in 
her arms a white dove. And then Herbert said that he 
had bought it that day for her. He supposed it must have 
escaped from the cage in which he brought it home ; and 
turning to me, he continued : 

“She always reminds me of the white dove. Our 
darling! how gently she has won and conquered all 
hearts ! ” 

When we returned to the house, Herbert went in with 
us. As we entered the sitting-room, the dove flew from 
Susie and nestled on father’s bosom. And she, our little 
bird of love and peace, went, and pillowing her sunny head 
there too, whispered : 

“ Grandpa, Herbert gave us this dove. Won’t you love 
him ? I do ; and so does Fannie. Don’t she, Herbert ? ” 

' And thus this little chattering bird forced Herbert to 
tell father how dear I was to him, before I had given leave, 
except by my eyes. 

The next Thanksgiving we were married. Susie was 
decidedly the belle of the evening ; and indeed Herbert was . 
so devoted in his attentions to her, that Father Osborn 
said laughingly : 


296 


HER OWN SWEET WILL. 


“Fannie, you’ll have a formidable rival there. Susie 
holds a large portion of Herbert’s heart.” 

“ Indeed she does, and of other hearts too. How can it 
be otherwise ? Our little dove of peace ! But for her, my 
wooing would have been a stormy one, I think,” answered 
Herbert. 

Thus the old feud was ended. I sometimes wish it 
could have been before mamma was taken from us. But 
looking at Herbert’s mother, Susie’s words, “ May be she 
will go away soon and see our grandma,” comes to my 
mind. And then I think their hands will clasp, in recon- 
ciliation and love, very soon now. And together they will 
watch for their children’s coming. 

Since then our Thanksgiving days have memories pecu- 
liarly touching and sweet. Others would have theirs 
grow yearly happier, should they mark them by some act 
of love and charity — reconciliations offered, and forgive- 
ness fully given and gladly received. 


FATE FIXED IT 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“rTTELL, sir, I’ve been waiting for your answer until 
V V my patience is quite exhausted.” 

“ Uncle, I’ve not answered again, only because I regret 
to offend or disappoint you. I can only reiterate my 
determination.” 

“ Confusion, sir, I want none of your sentimental non- 
sense ! ‘ Marry only for love ! ’ — ‘ a wife whose only dower 
is her pure, true heart! ’ Very pretty, sir, to read about; 
very beautiful in theory. But I had hoped a little good 
sound sense from my nephew. I say, sir, because a girl is 
rich, has plenty of gold and land, is that any reason why 
she should not be loved ? ” 

“ By no means, uncle. But if I were to accede to your 
wishes, money, not love, is the first, greatest, and in fact, 
the sole inducement for your nephew to seek Miss Leigh- 
ton — ” 

“ Silence, sir ! ’Tis not so. She is the daughter of my 
old friend ; and we promised you to each other when you 
were little more than babies. Come, now, Guy, be a sensi- 
ble boy, and do as I bid you ! ” 

“ Uncle, uncle, I cannot. I should lose all my self-re- 
spect without winning the respect of my future wife, were 
I to-” (297) 


298 


FATE FIXED IT. 


“ Then, sir, you are my nephew no longer ! I’ll cut you 
off with a shilling ! I’ll find some one else to leave my 
money to ! Or endow a lunatic asylum. But that would 
be providing a place for you^ you ungrateful young rascal ! ” 

“ Uncle, I am not ungrateful ! And as to your money, 
leave it where you choose. But your affection, I do value. 
Do not cast me from 3mur heart, uncle,” Guy Eversfield 
said, approaching his uncle, with extended hands. 

“ Words, words, mere words, sir. I want actions. Now, 
upon my honor as a gentleman, unless you will try to win 
Miss Leighton, you shall never cross my threshold again. 
Do you understand, sir? ” 

Guy looked intentl}'’ for a moment into his uncle’s face. 
It was not as he often had seen it, flushed and heated by 
a passion which, soon passing away, found him still the 
same kind, indulgent old uncle. There was no mistaking 
the cool determination. And he answered : 

“ I do, sir.” 

“Well, sir?” 

“ Good-morning, sir. I am sorry to part thus.” 

Guy’s handsome face was very pale as he turned away. 
He knew it would be useless to say more — even to put out 
his hand for a farewell clasp. 

“ Thank Heaven ! I have health and strength. I can 
go to work. And, thanks to my dear mother’s thoughtful 
care, I have enough money to keep me, with economy, 
until I can make money myself. Dear mother ! Little 
did she think, when putting aside from her own scantily- 
filled purse ‘ something for her boy to do with as he chose,’ 
how much I would need it. I’ll go immediately and ac- 
cept Morris’s offer. Go into his office, do his writing, and 
study with him. In two 3’'ears I can be admitted to the 
bar. I’ve no doubt of making a living. And— bless her 
sweet face ! — she will not care for riches. My beautiful 


FATE FIXED IT. 299 

da.iliiig! TliGr© is no doubt about it. I am in lovG as 
sure as ever was a fellow, and with a girl whose name I do 
not even know— perhaps, never shall. Well, this is the 
street where she got out. I will hunt for her again.” 

Five weeks before, while walking on avenue, Guy 

met his fate. He had noticed first the little figure before 
him, clothed in deep mourning. Then the bright golden 
hair that fell from beneath the little hat, and rested on the 
sable wrapping. He was thinking how very graceful she 
was, and wondering if her face was as beautiful as her hair 
and figure ; and if he was to hurry forward a few steps, 
ahead of her, would she think him very rude if he turned 
to catch just one glimpse ? He had about made up his 
mind to risk it, when fortune favored him. A little girl, 
barefoot, and looking generally miserable, came quickly 
by ; touching the maiden, she cried, holding towards her 
a basket : 

‘‘Do, pretty lady, buy my flowers! Just one little 
bunch 1 ” 

Never had Guy seen a lovelier face than the one that 
turned to look at the little flower-girl. 

Hastening forward, ostensibly to buy a bouquet, he stood 
beside the beautiful girl. 

She had selected a little bunch of violets, and putting 
her hand in her pocket she hesitated. A startled look 
came into her eyes, as she said : 

“I have lost my pocket-book; or — or some one has 
stolen it. I’m most sorry for your sake, poor child 1 ” 

In an instant Guy came to her relief. 

“ Permit me,” he said, handing his well-filled wallet. 

“Thank you, sir,” she returned with a beautiful blush. 

“ If you will buy some of her flowers it will answer as 
well,” returning the bunch of violets to the basket, she was 
moving away, when Guy caught up the violets and tossing 
a note into the basket, he said : 


300 


FATE FIXED IT. 


‘‘ These are the only flowers I care to keep.” 

“ But, oh, sir, you have given me much too much ! ” 

“ Not for ihese^ little one,” Guy answered, smiling, and 
passing on. 

The child darted forward to overtake the beautiful girl 
and tell her of her good fortune, and she turning again to 
the child’s touch, Guy was made happy by another look. 
He raised his hat. She could not mistake the respectful 
and admiring gaze. With a smile, a slight inclination of 
the graceful head, she passed on. 

He would not follow, as much as he desired to know 
more of her ; and he had never met her since, although 
certainly not less than twenty-five times had he walked up 
one side of the street and down the other. 


Seated on a porch just outside of the library was Lewis 
Brewster, another nephew of Mr. Eversfield. He had heard 
every word of the conversation of his uncle with Guy, and 
rejoiced at the conclusion. 

“ Now is my chance, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, “for 
either the rich wife or my uncle’s fortune. Indeed, per- 
haps both. I hardly think, however, that the old gent 
will hold out against Guy. He has a strange hold on his 
heart. My father he never loved, while Guy’s he did love 
more than all the world. What he has done for me was 
all on account of public opinion. He did not dare to cast 
his sister’s son off entirely, so he gave me an education, 
and to understand that was all he should do for me. I 
must either now spend the best of my life in working for 
my daily bread, or find a rich wife. I much prefer the 
latter.” 

Looking through the blinds he saw his uncle about 
leaving the room. Another moment, and the hall-door 
closed after him. 


FATE FIXED IT. 


301 


“Now, how am I to find my little jewel? The name I 
have. Now let me think. Ah! — yes! I will look in the 
directory.” 

Entering the library, he went up to his uncle’s desk. 
His face brightened, and he exclaimed : 

“ I am in luck ! Here is my lady’s, or rather her 

mamma’s card — Mrs. Leighton, No. 120 West street. 

I’ll do that street to-morrow from morning until night. If 
I get a glimpse at my little lady I will make her notice me.” 

The next day was Sunday. Thinking Miss Leighton 
would surely be going to church, Lewis Brewster, fault- 
lessly dressed, began to traverse the street on which the 
heiress lived. Fortune, indeed, seemed continually smiling 
on him. When he had gotten almost opix)site her dwell- 
ing the door opened, and a very handsomely dressed young 
girl stepped out. Hastening across, he ascended the marble 
steps, and with the most graceful bow possible, inquired if 
Mr. Green lived there. 

He had not overestimated his powers of attraction, for 
certainly the young girl smiled very sweetly when she 
answered, “ No, sir.” Nor did she seem anxious to dismiss 
him. The result was quite a little conversation ; and when 
Lewis said “ Good-morning,” he breathed a little sigh, and 
raised his handsome dark eyes very pleadingly to hers, and 
went away. 

“Oh, dear! but Mt he just perfectly splendid? I 
wonder what he meant by sighing and looking at me so ? 
Certainly, if I was to see him many times, my heart 
wouldn’t be my own long. Many times ! I declare, I’m 
not certain but it’s only half with me now. I hope I shall 
see him again. I wonder who he is.” 

While the young girl was thus thinking of Lewis, he was 
deeply engaged with thoughts of her. 

“ Well done for you, Brewster,” he said. “ You are all 


302 


FATE FIXED IT. 


right now. Well, the girl is pretty. She’ll do. There is 
a golden lustre about her that will more than compensate 
for actual beauty. She is not difficult material to work 
upon. If I mistake not, she will enjoy a little romantic 
aifair — a runaway match. However, to-morrow I shall be 
able to decide better.” 

The day- following Lewis saw her at the window. A 
smile, a bow, given and returned. Another day, and they 
met to meet again and again, many succeeding days. 

‘‘ If I dared to ask you, sir, how dearly I would love to. 
But — ^but — you know — ” she was saying, when Lewis, in- 
terrupting her embarrassing apology, said : 

“Yes, yes, I know, dear one, that your mamma is keep- 
ing you very close. She is anxious to give you to a man 
who cares nothing for you. And if you are forced to marry 
him, it will be a terrible sacrifice — a financial affair ! ” 

The girl’s eyes were full of astonishment. She said 
quickly : 

“ Oh, you are mistaken, I am not — ” 

“Heaven grant I am — and that you will not yield to 
their persuasions. If you should — ” His voice trembled. 
He could not speak for a moment — and then with quiver- 
ing lips and choking voice, he said: “Then, what will 
become of me ? ” 

Well, it needed but little more to be said, and it was 
settled that he was to become her husband. 


Guy Eversfield had been less fortunate in finding his 
love. The weeks rolled into months, yet he saw her no 
more. He had almost despaired, when one evening he 

was returning from a business tour to P ; the cars were 

unusually crowded. At one of the way-stations the con- 
ductor entered the car with a lady. Guy had noticed that 
there was not a vacant seat. Ever gallant, lie stepped out 


FATE FIXED IT. 


303 


and with winning grace offered his. The lady raised her 
veil — and Guy could scarcely restrain an exclamation of 
joy as he beheld the lovely girl who had occupied his 
thoughts for many weeks. Although no sound escaped 
his lips his eyes spoke plainly the glad surprise. With a 
faint blush, a smile, and bow of thanks and recognition, 
she accepted the seat. The conductor suggested a seat in 
the smoking-car, but Guy preferred to linger near. 

He was not going to lose sight of his love again so soon. 
A fat old gentleman sat beside her ; Guy was getting quite 
desperate when the conductor called out, “ Passengers for 
C ; ” and the old gent, jumping up, hurried out. 

Guy lost no time in presenting himself beside the fair 
girl, and asking : 

“ Will you permit me? ” 

In response to her smiling assent he seated himself, and 
said, in his frank, charming way : 

“ I cannot feel that we are strangers.” 

She could not withstand his earnest, honest look, and 
answered : 

^^Fate^ it seems, has decided we shall not be.” 

Immediately Guy handed his card. 

An exclamation of surprise half escaped her lips, and her 
color deepened. She continued to look at the card for a 
moment. Then turning to Guy, she said : 

I “ Your name is familiar to me, Mr. Eversfield. I have 
I met your uncle at Mrs. Leighton’s. My name is Mira 
Lester.” 

When they arrived at P , Guy was delighted to find 

Miss Lester’s friends were not at the depot to meet her. 
He was hurrying off to obtain a carriage, when she stopped 
him to say : 

‘‘ I would prefer to walk ; the distance is short, and the 
evening delightfully pleasant. I am staying with Mrs. 
Leighton, street.” 


304 


FATE FIXED IT. 


On the way, Guy told of his fruitless attempts to see her 
again ; and when reaching her destination, he asked per- 
mission to call. 

Miss Lester told him she had been absent ever since the 
morning after they first met. In answer to his request to 
call, she said : 

“Mr. Eversfield, I am companion to Mrs. Leighton. 
She is an invalid, and my time is very much engaged with 
her. Even were it not so, ought not your call rather to be 
on Miss Leighton ? ” 

“ Ah ! I see you have heard the story of Miss Leighton 
and myself being pledged to each other in our childhood I 
I have never seen her to remember; and with all due 
respect to the young lady, I am not anxious to. Miss 
Leighton and myself can never be more than now. A few 
days after meeting you, I gave my uncle to understand 
this. Well, he sent me forth. I’ve not seen him since. 

Mira understood that she had influenced his decision, 
and she said : 

“You were hasty, Mr. Eversfield. You should have 
seen Miss Leighton. You might have grown to — ” 

Guy interrupted her, saying : 

“ Never ! Then it could not be. The very idea of Miss 
Leighton was hateful to me. Without a sigh I accepted 
my uncle’s decision, and shall with joy resign a fortune, if, 
by so doing, I can win a heart of my own choosing.” 

They had reached Mrs. Leighton’s door, and when Guy 
had touched the bell, he said : 

“ I will not ask to enter to-night. It is late, and you are 
tired. But to-morrow. May I ? ” 

“Alt rmiV,” she answered, with a beautiful smile. 

And Guy knew that his plea was granted. 

When, the next evening, Guy entered Mrs. Leighton’s, 
he was not surprised that he passed the spacious and 
elegant drawing-room, and was ushered into a cosy little 


FATE FIXED IT. 


506 


sitting-room. He felt far happier with little Mira Lester 
there than he could possibly have done with the mistress 
of the mansion, surrounded by all the magnificence in her 
apartments. 

Mira soon knew that she had won the true and devoted 
love of a noble man ; that for love of her he would gladly 
put aside all the luxury and ease that he had been accus- 
tomed to, and accept a life of toil and privation. Yet 
there were many misgivings in her heart as she listened to 
his words of love. 

“ Ah, you know so little of me — of my family. I believe 
you love me ; but when the stern realities of life are before 
you, may you not regret ? ” she said. 

Never — never ! ” Guy answered, fervently, clasping the 
little hand closer in his. 

“ Will you always love me as now ? ” she whispered, low. 

“ Never less, dear one, and more and more as the years 
grow many wdth us.” 

“ Guy,” she said, her beautiful eyes filled with tears, “ I 
have a widowed mother ; she needs my support.” 

“ And mine, my own,” he answered. 

“ Guy,” her hand was on his shoulder, her heart eagerly 
searching his — “ Guy, you may be disappointed— you will. 
My mother is employed here, in this house ; you — ” 

“ Oh, my love, why will you fill your heart with doubts? 
Your mother is my mother, and where’er I find her, in 
‘palace hall or lowly cot,’ hers is the post of honor, for 
she is the mother of my queen I ” 

“ Then come to her.” 

Mira led Guy through a little hall, and opening the door, 
ushered him into a ver}^ handsome!}^ furnished room. A 
gentle, delicate-looking woman reclined in an invalid’s chair. 

Guy’s eyes were full of astonishment. But he drew near, 
and taking the extended hand, raised it to his lips, saying: 

19 


FATE FIXED IT. 


SOC 

Mother — Mira has given me permission to call you so 
— will you give us your blessing on our love ? ” 

“ Right willingly, my dear son,” she said ; “ and there is 
somebody over there who will join his blessing with mine, 
I’m sure.” 

Guy had not noticed the gentleman seated on the other 
side of the apartment. 

He turned, and Guy exclaimed : 

‘‘ Uncle ! ” turning his inquiring gaze from one to another. 

“Yes, ‘uncle,’ you young rascal — no, you dear boy I 
Yes, God bless you — both of you!” Mr. Eversfield said, 
clasping Guy and Mira in one embrace. 

“ I — I cannot understand,” Guy began saying. 

And Mira, turning her pleading eyes to his, said : 

“ Oh, forgive me, Guy — ” 

“ Forgive 1 Nothing of the kind. Bless, rather. ’Pon 
my soul, if I am not crying, when this is the happiest day 
of my life 1 ” 

“Ah I my boy. Fate wove her web about you. This dear 
girl is Miss Leighton — ” 

“Then whom, in Heaven’s name, is this girl? ” cried out 
Lewis Brewster, who had entered the room just then, hold- 
ing by the hand a pale and trembling girl. 

“ Forgive me ! Oh, forgive me, Lewis 1 ” the girl 
gobbed. 

And Mr. Eversfield exclaimed : 

“ What is all this about ? What does it mean ? ” 

“ It means, sir, that this girl married me under false 
pretences. I believed her Miss- Leighton,” Lewis answered, 
angrily. 

“Ah, ha I Indeed I And now you find out you have 
married the maid instead of the mistress! Serves you 
right ! But she is too good for you ! ” 

“ I — I — It is not legal, sir ! I will not stand to itl I 
was deoeived ! ” Lewis continuecL 


FATE FIXED IT. 


S07 


“ Oh, I tried to tell yoa once, but you would not let me. 
You would call me Miss Leighton. And I feared to lose 
you. I loved you ! Indeed I did ! ” 

“ Poor girl ! You are to be pitied. And you^ sir — did 
you not deceive her with pretences of true love ? Bah ! 
were it not for her, I would pitch you out of the window ! 
She is your wife! And look to it, sir! I will not have 
my niece treated with any disrespect, even by her husband. 
There, child, dry your tears. I will take you with me 
until your husband finds a home for you. You, sir, had 
better try and win the same position that you occupied an 
hour ago in your wife’s heart. Go, now ! ” 

Crestfallen and sullen, Lewis left the room and house. 
But he returned to his senses in a few days, and preparing 
a home for his bride, took her to it, declaring, at any rate, 
she was the handsomest girl he knew, and looked the lady 
every inch. 

When the door closed after Lewis Brewster and his wife, 
Mira turned quickly, and said : 

Guy, I meant not to continue this deception. When 
I first found out your name — I hardly know why — I only 
gave you part of mine ; unless — ” here her sweet face w'as 
covered with blushes— “I liked you well enough, even 
then, to be anxious to have Miss Leighton become less 
hateful to you. I would have told you when you first 
called, but your uncle made me promise not. Am I for- 
given ? ” 

Don’t speak of forgiveness, dear love,” Guy said. ^‘This 
is the happiest day of my life, and I think a special provi- 
dence took my affairs in hand, and directed my wayward 
steps to a most happy end. But you will forgive me for 
saying that although I have won the heiress, she is of no 
greater value to me than my little love, whose only wealth, 
I believed, was her pure and true heart, and that, to me, 
was more than all the gold that earth can give.’* 


THE MISSING KEY. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

what beautiful roses! I’ve seen none like them 
this season. Where did you get them, Hal ? 

The youth’s face deepened to a bright hue as he looked, 
with a half doubtful smile, into his mother’s eyes. 

“ Tell me who gave them to you — ? ” 

“Nobody. Now don’t scold, mother: I hooked them 
from old Phil Kingsley’s garden — ” 

“ Oh, my son 1 How could you ? How mortified I am. 
If you were only eight or ten years old I might excuse — 
but my almost man to — ” 

“ Don’t, mother I Don’t say that I’m mortified myself 
now, and was directly after I took them. I did not care 
for them a straw. I’ll tell 3^11 just how I came to take 
them. When I was going home with Millie,” Hal’s face 
flushed a little deeper just then, “we passed old Phil’s. 
Oh, I never saw such quantities of roses. Millie stopped 
to admire them and wished for some. ‘Just only one,’ 
she said. Old Phil sat on his porch. I opened the gate 
and stepped up to him — Millie stood where he could and 
did see her. I asked him to give me one rose. The old 
bear 1 he growled out ‘ No — let them fade and scatter their 
leaves, I won’t give them away. I hate women, all of 
them.’ And with that he turned his back and went on 
( 308 ) 


THE MISSING KEY. 


309 


with his reading. I just vowed then I’d keep a few of 
them from scattering their leaves over his ground. I 
wonder how the flowers can bloom around such a hard- 
hearted old creature. Indeed, I doubt if he has any heart 
at all. Well, coming back I jumped the fence and helped 
myself. I did intend sending them to Millie, but I guess 
I will not. I will find some others for her — not stolen 
ones.” 

“ Poor old man ! He is to be pitied rather than despised, 
my son. He must have had some sorrow or great wrongs, 
and from his words I think we may have the key. Like 
the roses, perchance, his joys have faded ; his hopes been 
scattered. Then his hatred to women, or rather his imag- 
ining so — ” 

“ Oh, mother, you are too poetical in your imaginings. 
If he has suffered, I wager it is only by the loss of gold. 
If he has ever had a heart, I don’t think any one ever did 
or will find a door to it.” 

“ Yes, my boy, the door can be opened, when some one 
with the key comes. I believe in every heart there is a 
tender chord, a spring whose waters once flowed, and may 
again. There, put your flowers in water and try and feel 
less harshly to poor old Phil.” 

Old Phil Kingsley had lived just where Hal saw him 
for twenty years and more. He kept to himself, neither 
visiting nor receiving visitors. One or two neighbors — the 
minister and the village doctor— called once, but receiving 
no inducement, never went again. They had ceased long 
since wondering about the queer man; ^‘Old Phil,” the 
“ Bear,” and the “ Dragon,” the boys called him ; and the 
girls, by their mothers taught, spoke of him as “ The man 
without a heart.” 

Old Phil sat, as he always did every afternoon, in his 
chair, on the shaded porch. The June roses had faded; 
their leaves were scattered all around him. 


310 THE MISSING KEY. 

“Just so! ” he murmured ; ‘^just so ! ” 

The latch of the garden-gate clicked. Old Phil’s eyes 
were raised. A darker scowl came over his face as he saw 
a woman, with a baby in her arms, walking slowly up the 
walk. 

John 1 ” he called, loudly ; John I ” 

And an instant after his only attendant, the faithful 
John, who, if he had chosen, could have told what it was 
that made his master “ queer,” came out. 

Send them off, away,” the master said. 

John hurried out and spoke, but the woman heeded not. 
She moved on, slowly tottering up, and sank on the steps 
near to old Phil’s feet. 

John followed close, and caught the babe that slipped 
from the relaxing arms. 

“Water, please,” she whispered. 

“ She’s well-nigh spent. Let her lie,” John said, as he 
hurried off to get a glass of wine. 

Back quickly he came, but too late to help her then. 
The poor woman had fainted. The babe had crawled quite 
up to old Phil’s feet, and raised her eyes wonderingly to 
the stern, hard face. Mechanically his eyes rested on the 
child’s. He turned them quickly away, and put forth his 
hand as if to push the little one off. His fingers were ' 
caught and held in a warm, tiny clasp. Again the old l! 
man’s eyes met those shy, yet tender, beseeching eyes. 'i 

“ The same kind ; false, cruel as the grave, for all that,” | 
he said, in a hard tone. Yet his ej^es softened a little and | 
his hand was not snatched from the baby’s clasp. , 

“ Master, she may be dying, or dead ! Help me here I ” i 
John said, a doubtful look on his face. 

Old Phil gently put the babe aside. His face grew 
somewhat softened as he stooped and drew off the bonnet 
from the fallen head. The hair fell in long, heavy tressea 
about the pale face. ' 


THE MISSING KEY. 811 

“ Master,” said John, “ this looks as if we had gone hack 
well-nigh a score and a half of years.” 

Old Phil answered not, but lifted the slight form, and 
bore it under the shade of the porch, as John hurried for 
pillows. 

It was long ere the closed eyes opened. During which 
time old Phil’s thoughts had flown back to a time when 
one as fair and young and wonderfully like this strange 
woman had rested in his arms. 

“Nellie was given to such spells, either from overjoy, 
sorrow, or excitement of any kind; I used to know just 
what to do then.” There was a look in old Phil’s eyes 
then that John had not seen for many weary years. An 
angel perhaps was knocking at the long-closed door. 
Would it open? Was the key to be found at last? 

Still with the past old Phil remained. 

“ The last time I saw her, she lay fainting in his arms. 
Oh ! curse him ! Curse — ” 

“Hush! master, she’s coming too.” The master’s face 
had grown hard and dark again. 

The woman’s gaze was fixed earnestly, eagerly on old 
Phil’s face. “Ask him to come,” she whispered to John 
who was bending over her. 

John did as she wished. His master drew near, closer, 
as the soft pleading eyes were raised to his. 

His features were working convulsively then, as he bent 
down, and he asked : 

“ Who are you, child ? ” 

“Mother said you would surely know, me,” the woman 
answered, putting her hand in liis. 

“ Yes, yes, you are Nellie’s child — and ” — his voice was 
choked and husky as he asked — “And where is she? ” 

“ Gone! Years ago, when I was a child scarce ten years 
old, she said some time I might find you. She wished me 


312 


THE MISSING KEY. 

to. I’ve a little note she wrote you a few days before she 
passed away. Eleven years ago, I married very young. I 
was an orphan, with none but distant relatives to care for 
me. Father was killed in the war before mother went to 
heaven. Often I’ve wanted to find you, but I could not 
leave my husband. I knew we should have but a short 
time to be together in this world. Mother told me if I 
should ever need a friend, I must come to you. Others 
said you would drive me off; but I minded them not. 
Mother always told me true.” 

Again the beautiful eyes were looking into his, wanting 
their answer. The key was in the lock, and turning, turn- 
ing. The door yielded, flew wide open, and old Phil’s 
arms were extended, and the w^eary head of Nellie’s child 
was pillowed on the old man’s bosom. 

“ Glory be to God ! ” John fervently exclaimed. “ The 
wrath is turned aside.” 

“Nellie’s child and mine now!” the old man said. 
“ What are you called, dear ? ” 

“ Nellie, too, and baby is little Nell — ” 

“ I’m glad ’tis so,” he answered, taking a time-worn let- 
ter from Nellie’s hand. 

The eyes of Uncle Philip, as Nellie called him, were 
turned away, and shaded by his hand, as he read : 

“Dear Philip: I could not tell yon then, for father’s 
sake, why I gave you up, and gave my hand to my Nellie’s 
father. My heart was broken, Philip. Father was old, 
his name, his honor, I could save. He entreated me to 
marry the man whose money would relieve him. Love 
my child and think of me. Waiting your coming in 
that land where all is love.” 


When the last roses of summer were blooming, Hal and 
his loved one were again passing old Phil’s home. Millie 


THE MISSING KEY, 


313 


would stop to look in. Under a tree, near the old man, 
sat a beautiful woman, and in his arms was a baby girl. 
A cry of delight came from the little one. 

See, pretty lady ! ” pointing to Millie. 

Uncle Philip arose quickly, bowed, and smiling, ap- 
proached. Cutting a cluster of beautiful buds, he put 
them in little Nell’s hand, saying : 

Give them to the lady, and ask her to come in and see 
mamma.” 

An hour after, Hal rushed into his mother’s room, ex- 
claiming ; 

“ Can you believe it ? Millie and I spent a half hour 
with old Phil this afternoon.” 

And then he told her all about it, adding : 

“You were right, mother; only the key was wanting. 
Old Phil has a heart, and a warm, true one, too, I know, 
for I have the proof of it. He loves little children ; he told 
me so ; and asked me to bring them to see his little one. 
Yes, Uncle Philip is at peace with the whole world now. 
His Nellie’s spirit is guiding him, drawing him to her. 
The boys have ceased their old cries ; the girls their doubt 
of his having a heart. And now we only hear from all, 
‘ Kind Uncle Phil,’ ‘ Dear Uncle Phil.’ ” 


THE BABY’S VICTORY 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


*Twas but for a moment, yet into that time 

Was crowded th’ impressions of many an hour. — MoORE. 


URELY never was man more devoted to his lady 



k3 love, or son more dutiful and affectionate to his 
mother, than young Mr. Argyle is to you, Hepsey Dyer. 
I know no blood of yours runs through his veins, so I 
often wonder why it is he loves you so ? ” 

“Yes, he loves me; and well he may. He has a kind, 
grateful heart, my young master; and I know, whenever 
his eye falls on me, he is always thinking that it is for him 
I go through life a cripple. 

“It is a strange story I shall tell you; one of fate, some 
would say, but I know better. It was superstition and 
villany that made Harry Argyle an orphan, and me so 
helpless. 

“ I was an orphan when Mrs. Armsfield took me to nurse 
her little daughter. She was a kind, indulgent mistress, 
and the baby girl Minnie a dear, loving child. I would 
willingly risk my life for either. 

“Years passed on, and my little lady grew up and mar- 
ried. Her husband was the wealthiest man in our county. 
He idolized his beautiful wife, and she was as happy and 
merry as a bird. Mrs. Armsfield died when her daughter 
had been married only a few months, leaving all her prop- 


( 314 ) 


THB baby's VICTOBY, 


815 


erty, which was considerable, to my young mistress, her 
only child, who grieved continually for her mother until 
the little Harry was sent to comfort her. Then we soon 
saw her smiling and cheerful again. But, dear young 
lady, this did not last long. There came a severer, more 
heart-wringing trial for her. 

“ When little Harry was only six months old his father 
was thrown from his horse and hurt very severely ; ‘ inter- 
nally,’ the doctors said. He was never well afterward ; 
and after lingering a few weeks he died, leaving all his 
great wealth to his wife, to be subject entirely to her will. 
I have heard that his friends, who knew of his determina- 
tion, and his lawyer when writing the will, remonstrated 
with him against it. They advised the securing of his 
son’s interests against any event which might occur; I 
suppose referring to a possibility of my lady’s marrying 
again. But no. He said ‘ he would give all to her. He 
■would prove how entirely he trusted her wdth his son’s 
welfare. He feared no act of hers would injure his pros- 
pects. The child’s mother was the natural and proper 
guardian.’ And so he left her when only tw'enty-three, so 
young, so beautiful, so rich ! — a prize to be fought for by 
all the fortune-hunters far and near. She -was almost 
alone in the world — neither parents, brother, nor sister to 
protect or advise her. 

I believe she loved me, next to her boy, better than 
any friend. There were distant cousins of her mother’s, 
but she did not seem to care much for them. 

“For three years after Mr. Argyle’s death, she remained 
at home; never visiting; going only to church, and receiv- 
ing no company but her oldest friends and near neighbors. 
When little Harry was nearly four years old, he grew puny 
and ailing, and our country doctor advised his being taken 
to the city to obtain the advice of a celebrated physician 
there. 


316 


THE BABY^S VICTORY. 


“So we went to Baltimore, and remained several weeks 
with my young mistress’ cousin. Ah, that was the begin- 
ning of her miserable end. 

“She was thrown into a great deal of company, and very 
much admired. The report of her vast riches was every- 
where heard. At a musical party she met a young Italian 
professor— a dark, wicked-looking man I thought him; 
but the young girls, and my lady too, thought, or pretended 
to think, that he was handsome. He devoted himself very 
much to little Harry, and the child became very fond of 
him. I watched him, oh, how keenly ! I knew what he 
was after — the surest way to the mother’s heart. 

“ One afternoon he called to attend the ladies to a pic- 
ture gallery. I went with them, taking care of Harry. 
Among the pictures was one of a fortune-teller. They 
were looking at that, when the conversation turned on the 
subject. My young lady was always superstitious; she 
was very timid, afraid of spirits, and believing in tokens 
and signs. I never could tell how one of her education 
could think as she did, for, with my little knowledge, I 
could not believe those things she tried to make me believe. 

“Poor child! That afternoon she expressed her ideas 
before that foreign demon, and made this remark, which I 
afterwards knew had sealed her fate : 

“ ‘ I have never had my fortune told, through fear, for I 
should certainly believe and yield to it ; I could not resist. 
If I was told I should die at a certain time, I feel quite 
sure I should,’ she said. 

“ I saw the triumphant look come into the dark man’s 
eye. He knew her weakness, and would use it against 
her. I do not believe, up to that time, she had ever thought 
• much about him — never as a lover. I dared not warn her. 
I was afraid of putting it in her head. 

“ In a day or two some one proposed a picnic. I believe 


THE BABY^S VICTORY. 


317 


it was he, but I am not sure. At any rate, all agreed, 
and a grove a few miles out of town was chosen. 

“ My young lady was merrier that day than since her 
husband’s death. 

“ Late in the afternoon, just before we left for home, 
there came along. a woman begging. Nearly all gave her 
some money. And then she said she would ‘read the 
future to them.’ The merry girls were delighted, and one 
by one she took them apart and told her lies. 

“ My young lady refused, the only one. I begged her 
not to hear what the old crone wanted to tell her. 

“ The girls all laughed, and called her a little coward, 
and. then she yielded. 

“ I never shall forget the white, scared face she brought 
back to us. She seemed to have growm old in those few 
moments. I was very mad, and spoke my mind to the old 
woman. 

“ She gave me a look which made me remember her, 
yes, and recognize her, when I met her again, though in a 
very different position. 

“ After that day, the Italian was constant and persever- 
ing in his endeavors to wun my young lady. Oh, how I 
pleaded with her ! w'arned her against him I We went 
home. Soon he followed. It was no use. I saw plainly 
what a strong influence he was gaining over her. She no 
longer listened to me, but said : 

“ ‘ It is my fate, Hepsey. The fortune-teller told me the 
past, the present, all so true ; and the future will be as she 
said. I shall marry Signor Brignoli, and be very happy.’ 

“He brought many letters expressing his high standing 
and respectability, from the gentlemen in whose families 
he taught music. But what did those people know of his 
past life; who he had been; and what his heart was? 
More than all, what his motives were in seeking my lady? 


318 


THE BABY^S VICTORY. 


“ Well, well, in six months after she first met him, they 
were married. 

“ It did not take many weeks before it was plain to see 
my young lady was not happy. She was very much afraid 
of her husband, and never would have me sit and talk with 
her as I used to, except when he went to the city for a few 
days. Then her old loving way would return somewhat. 
I could tell well enough that I was very much in the man’s 
way. For some reason, he wanted me off. He would find 
fault, order me about, and once told me to find another 
home. She, poor dear, said : 

“ ‘ Perhaps you had better find another home, Hepsey — 
one where you will be happier ! ’ 

“ But I was not going while there was a chance of saving 
her, or watching over my darling little Harry. No, no; I 
had been there for twenty years, and wouldn’t go unless 
my young lady ordered me off. And she was getting so 
pale, thin, and feeble, I knew she w^as dying slowly. I 
should stay and see the ending of her troubles. 

“ He went up to the city about a year after the marriage, 
and brought home with him his aunt, as he called her. 
My young lady grew more miserable after she came. The 
w^oman placed herself at the head of the table, and indeed 
•was the mistress, while the true one was no more than a 
dependent. 

“Against me Madame seemed to have a real hatred. 
She insulted me in every way she could. It was a hard 
struggle to bear with her. I was often tempted to go. 
One day I was alone with my young lady, and she w^his- 
pered, as if she was afraid of being heard, ‘ Stay with my 
child, Hepsey. Watch over him until I am gone, and 
then — ’ What she was going to say I never knew. They 
came in. A few days after this she was taken to her bed, 
never to rise again! I was kept from the room. One time 


THE baby’s victory. 319 

I was about making my way in with Harry, to see his 
mother, when the old woman came out and stopped me. 
She made me very angry, and I talked very plainly to 
her. 

“She forgot herself then, and her eyes blazed. She gave 
me a look !— such a one as I had only seen once before. I 
recognized her then— she was the fortune-teller at the pic- 
nic I Her fine dress and grand airs had deceived me ! All 
was plain enough then, but too late to benefit my dear 
lady. She had yielded to villany, not fate. They said the 
child could not come in ; his mother was too ill to be agi- 
tated in any way. 

“ I watched every movement of the two when they were 
out of the room, which was never together, one remaining 
to keep me away. From what I could make out, she was 
about to make her will. A lawyer came from the city to 
write it. I told the old woman I was going over to a 
neighbor’s to make a little visit, to amuse Harry with the 
children. She was glad enough to have me away. 

“ I started, took the child to the gardener, and got him 
to keep him out of sight a little while. He hated the for- 
eign people, and was glad to helj^ me. 

“Watching my chance, I stole back, and hid in the 
library, behind the heavy curtains. They were at dinner, 
and I felt sure they would have to get through their work 
before six o’clock, as the lawyer was to go back in the cars 
at that hour. 

“ I had not long to wait. He came, with the tool who 
was to serve him. 

“ I heard him dictate the words which were to give him 
everything, and the guardianship of her child. 

“ I thought I should go mad. Oh, if I could only get in 
to her ! But that was impossible. 

“ They went out. I flew to tlie gardener’s, got my boy, 


320 


THE baby’s victory. 


and returned to the house. When I reached there the 
lawyer was just going to her room. They sent for the gar- 
dener and his wife, who were the only white servants save 
myself about the place, to witness, the will. How could I 
witness this wicked work going on ? 

“ Then there came to me this thought : ‘ Hepsey Dyer, 
you must show the child to his mother. Get her to look 
at him, and all will be well.’ 

“ There was a window in my lady’s room, from which 
was a little balcony, but only to be reached through her 
room ; her bed was directly opposite. , I must get to that 
window. 

“ I caught up my boy — ran out. Fortune favored me. 
They had been painting the house, and the ladder used by 
the men stood near. I called to one of the servants, who 
helped me move it where I wished. I mounted, wuth 
Harry in my arms. In a moment more I stood at the 
window; but wdiat was my disappointment to find the 
curtain closely drawn ! Not a glimpse of the room was 
visible. Quickly I drew the outer blinds from their fast- 
enings, and gradually pushed them until they closed, 
making the room of course quite dark. I thought the 
probability was that some one would come and draw up 
the curtain to get more light, and at that moment I would 
tap on the glass and show the child. 

“ I heard some one approaching. The curtain was put 
back. I could plainly see my dear young lady. And, 
oh Heaven, she was propped up, and just placing her pen 
on the paper ! Perhaps I was too late, I thought ! I flung 
back the blinds, rapped sharply on the glass, and placed 
Harry against it. 

“ The poor dying mother glanced towards the window, 
caught sight of her boy, raised her arms, and sprang for- 
ward, but falling quickly back— her life’s blood flowing 


THE BABY^S VICTORY. 321 

over and blotting out the words which would have made 
my darling penniless. Yes, yes I I had served him at a 
dreadful cost — his mother’s life ! But it was better so than 
for her to have lived on for months in misery and fear. 

“ In my haste to get down the ladder, and out of the 
reach of those bad people, I fell, breaking my limb. I 
have never been able to use it but poorly since. The ser- 
vant ran with the news to the neighbors, and many 
gathered round. I told my story, and begged the protec- 
tion of them for myself and Harry, until some of her 
relatives should be sent for. 

“ There were whispers of slow poison being given to my 
lady. Physicians were summoned to make an examina- 
tion. They found nothing to convict the people. But 
what looked very suspicious was, when ’twas known what 
the doctors were going to do, both husband and aunt dis- 
appeared, and have never been heard of since, taking with 
them jewels, silver, and a large amount of money ! 

“ For years I lived in terror, thinking they might return 
and work us evil. Now you know why Mr. Harry cares 
so much for me. And you see, superstition caused my 
1 lady’s death. I wish I was a law-maker. I would make 
I the penalty of fortune-telling as severe as it was for witch- 
craft in olden times I” 

; s. 


THE NEW CINDERELLA 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

“TTT^HAT is the matter, Mabel ? said Arthur Graham 
VV to a girl he found sobbing in the garden. 

‘‘ Oh, I wish I was dead ! Every day I live is an age of 
misery. Mr. Graham, you who have so many friends 
cannot imagine the loneliness, the dreariness, of a life 
without one heart that loves or sympathizes with yours. 
Such is mine. Never is an opportunity lost where I can 
he taunted with my ugliness, my awkwardness. I cannot 
change my looks, but sometimes I try to be smart and do 
things which I think will please my aunt ; but I always 
fail, and that disheartens me, and makes me cross. I will | 
tell you a secret, Mr. Graham. You \yill not betray my j 
confidence, I know. Last night, I went down to the river. I 
Oh, it looked so beautiful, so calm and bright, that I longed j 
to lay me down on its bosom and rest. I sprang forward, ij 
Suddenly a blindness came over me, and distinctly I heard ! 
whispered in my ear, ‘ Back ! back ! Your path is guided | 
by a loving hand. He will remove the thorns. Wait and [ 
trust.^ I knew the voice. ’ Twas mother’s, from the spirit j 
land. I shall try to live on ; but,” and her voice sank to a j 
whisper, “ I am going to run away from here soon ; to- [ 
morrow — to-night perhaps. I may find friends among 
strangers.” 

“ Mabel, my child, you must not. If troubles you have 


THE NEW CINDERELLA. 


323 


here, temptation, trials and suffering that you dream not 
of, 'vvill surround you elsewhere.” 

She shook her head. A determined look was in her eye 
and about the mouth. He saw it, and said : 

“ Promise me, then, that you will think well before you 
take that step. Take time. Wait for three days. Will 
you do this, Mabel ? And, my child, think and know I 
am your friend. Perhaps — I have hoped to be nearer — 
and then you will have a happy home.” 

“ Oh, no! Mira does not love me. She would not want 
me. How could she, so beautiful and bright, want such a 
dull, disagreeable, ugly girl about her ? That is what they 
call me,” she said, in a bitter tone. 

“ You have grown morbid, child. Mira does love you ; 
and when away from her aunt’s influence, she will be dif- 
ferent. You will promise me to wait?” 

“ Yes, yes ; I can eAdure life that much longer.” 

Arthur Graham moved off toward the house, his mind 
filled as much with thoughts of Mabel’s misery as of her 
sister’s bright, beautiful face, w^hich he could see then look- 
ing from the drawing-room window. 

Mira was eighteen; a beautiful girl truly; a perfect 
blonde, with laughing blue eyes, and a shower of golden 
ringlets. She was her aunt’s pride. Mrs. Mark Mapleton 
delighted in chaperoning a girl who created a sensation, 
and Mira was the belle of every entertainment. And then 
Mrs. Mark had made up her mind that her niece should 
catch the wealthiest man in the market; and she, even 
then, would practice the introduction, to see how it would 
sound, when alone in her own room: “My niece Mrs. 
Arthur Graham.” 

Mira and Mabel were left orphans five years before, 
when the little beauty was thirteen, and the “ Fright,” as 
they frequently termed Mabel, was four years younger, to 


S24 


THE NEW CINDEEELLA. 


the care of their mother’s brother. The little Mira imme- 
diately became a universal favorite, and Mabel was con- 
sidered a very disagreeable acquisition to the family. 

Arthur Graham reached the house, and was cordially 
welcomed by the beautiful Mira. Arthur had not as yet 
offered her his hand, or told her he loved her; but for two 
months past he had been very attentive, and both Mira 
and her aunt had no doubt of success. 

During the evening Arthur spoke of Mabel’s unhappiness 
to her sister, and was much disappointed at her carelessness, j 
and the apparent disposition to drop the subject. 

“Oh, she has a miserable, unhappy disposition! It is 
of no use to worry about her,” she said. 

Later in the evening, when the going to the May ball 
was talked of, he asked : 

“ Is Mabel going ? ” 

Mira’s reply was a little modification of her aunt’s to j 
Mabel, with the remark, “ You seem very much interested 
in her.” 

“ She is your sister,” he said, earnestly. 

This reply produced mingled emotions of pleasure and 
mortification in Mira’s bosom, and she said to herself, 
“Yes, he loves me. But I must be more cautious; his 
tone implied displeasure, I think.” 

****** Jf! 

They were all off to the ball but poor Mabel, who sat 
with her foot on the baby’s cradle, and her little fingers | 
busy with some piece of sewing. 

She was thinking of her promise to Arthur Graham, and ! 
on the morrow the three days would be out, and her mind 
was unchanged. She would go away. ; 

There was a ring at the bell. The servants were all gone 
too, except the cook, who was asleep in the kitchen. Mabel ^ 
thought she was tired, and so she would not arouse her. 


THE NEW CINDERELLA. S25 

Putting down her work, she went and opened the 
door. 

“ Is Mrs. Mapleton in ? ” inquired a pleasant-looking old 
lady, who stood on the step. 

Her face was one that inspired immediate respect and 
confidence ; so Mabel, after saying her aunt was not home, 
invited the stranger in. 

In fifteen minutes Mabel was talking to her as if she had 
known her for years. The dear, motherly woman ! The 
poor girl felt as she had not for years. She opened her 
heart, and her listener felt its sorrows. 

“You are truly a little Cinderella, my child. Would 
you not rejoice if a fairy godmother would turn up?” said 
the old lady. 

“ No, not just that ; but oh ! I do wish for just somebody 
to love me, that I could work for, and that w^ould encourage 
and smile on me — that is all.” 

“ Child, I am poor. I have nothing that is not given me. 
I have no child. Would you come with me? ” 

“To work for you? To help you in every way? To 
keep you from being lonesome ? Do you mean so ? ” asked 
Mabel, her face growing brighter as she spoke. 

“ Yes, yes, child; and to give up all luxuries like these, 
she said, waving her hand toward the elegant appointments 
of the room. 

The words whispered in her ear at the moment of her 
terrible temptation came back to Mabel’s mind, and she 
thought, “ God has sent me this friend.” 

“ I will go with you gladly, gladly ! I care not for riches. 
I want love and kindness. I can work ; you shall no more. 
Can you love one as ugly as I am ? ” 

“ We will see. Will you come now? ” 

“ I cannot desert this little babe. Her mother left her 
to my care. I must stay until she, my aunt, returns. 


326 THE NEW CINDERELLA. 

Then it will be very late. But in the morning, very early, 
before any one is up, I will come, if you please.” 

“ Very well ; I will meet you at the corner,” the old lady 
said, rising to leave. 

As the door closed on her, she murmured : 

^‘Faithful! grateful! wishing for nothing more than ^ 
kindness and love. She is of the right metal. I shall do 
well!” i 

It was to a home where only the necessaries of life were | 
found, that Mabel’s new friend carried her. In two rooms, | 
in a very remote part of that great city, they lived. ! 

Mabel was always busy. Besides the little household 
duties, there was their daily bread to earn. Stitch, stitch, 
stitch, from morning to night, her needle she plied, growing 
daily happier. With a keen eye the old lady watched her, ; 
to detect the approach of regret. But her face was calm ; | 

no shade of care was there; the old dark, and at times ; 

sullen look, was gone. Her eyes grew briglit, and snatches i 
of merry song, in bird-like warbles, escaped her lips. , 

“ My fairy godmother, indeed, you are I ” she would often 
say, in a voice of deep gratitude. 

* * 5 |! * 

Four years rolled by. During the first month after ! 
Mabel’s disappearance, Arthur Graham, discovering how | 
entirely selfish Mira was, crushed the love he bore her, and, 
to both Mrs. Mapleton’s and her niece’s great disappoint- ' 
ment, he ceased to visit the house. ! 

A short time after, he sailed for Europe. Mira had many i 

admirers, but none had been considered worthy, I suppose, j 

At any rate, she was still unmarried. | 

A new star had arisen in the fashionable firmament, and ; 

many of the young men of P were enthusiastic in her ’ 

. praise. 

Do you know her? Have you seen her ? ” was the offc- 
repeated inquiry, and reached the ears of Mira Mapleton. 


THE NEW CINDERELLA. 327 

Tell me of her. Is she fair ? ” she asked, with a look 
which said, “ Of course none other can be beautiful ! ” 

Oh, no. Dark, bright, gloriously beautiful. I saw her 
at the opera with Mrs. Clifton. You know her— Arthur 
Graham’s aunt. Rumor says the beauty is her adopted 
daughter. By-the-by, Graham is coming home soon.” 

Hope again grew in Mira’s heart. A few weeks after, 
Mrs. Mapleton and Mira received cards of invitation to a 
reception given by Mrs. Clifton, who introduced her adopted 
daughter to her friends. 

After an absence of nearly four years, Mrs. Clifton had 
returned to her home. 

The night came when Mira should not only see the 
beauty, but again meet Arthur Graham. 

Great care was bestowed on her toilet. And when Mrs, 
Mapleton surveyed her, she thought. Can any one be more 
beautiful ? 

It was a very brilliant assembly. Many eyes were eager 
to see the girl declared to be so very beautiful. 

When Mrs. Mapleton and Mira approached to greet their 
hostess, she welcomed them, and turned to call the attention 
of her daughter, whose face was turned from them. 

‘‘My daughter, Mrs. and Miss Mapleton.” 

She turned. Report had spoken truly. A girl gloriously 
beautiful she was; a dark, bewitching creature. With 
perfect ease and grace she greeted them. And Mira felt 
her reign of beauty w^as over. 

“Where have I seen her before?” was the inquiry that 
simultaneously escaped the lips of Mira and her aunt. 

Arthur Graham came up just then, and after a cordial 
greeting from both ladies, Mira said : 

“I am trying to think who Miss Clifton reminds me of.” 

“You will think it absurd, perhaps; but she reminds 
me much of your sister Mabel. Have you ever heard of 
her?” 


328 THE NEW CINDEEELLA. 

“ Never. But I don’t see how you can think Miss Clifton 
like her. Yet there is a something that reminds me a little, 
a very little, of — ” 

“ Whom ? ” asked her uncle, coming up. 

“ Mabel,” answered Mira. 

“ To me she is like your mother, my sister. I seem to 
have gone hack long years ago, as I look on that beautiful 
girl. Just so she looked.” And his eyes grew moist, as 
he said : “ I am going to be presented ; I have not been. 
Come with me, Graham.” 

She saw them approaching. And stepping back within 
the recess of a bay-window. Miss Clifton awaited them. 
The eyes that sought hers were searching and tender. She 
could not resist them. 

“ Uncle 1 uncle I ” she cried ; and in an instant her arms 
were around his neck. 

Soon all was explained, and he asked : 

But what has worked this great change in your looks, 
Mabel?” 

“ A change of atmosphere, uncle,” she said, smiling. 

“ Ah, yes. I felt how it was, but I could not alter things. 
My interference would have made it worse,” he said, 
solemnly. 

“ I thought you loved me a little, uncle,” she answered. 

Off he flew with the news, and soon returned, accom- 
panied by his wife and Mira. 

It was an embarrassed meeting on their part, but they 
got through it, and the party was separated, all but the 
uncle, who would linger near Mabel, and whispered : 

“ Where is the prince, Mabel ? ” 

“Here, I hope,” said Arthur, who came up in time to 
catch the words. 

Uncle Mark chuckled merrily, and thought he had better 
move off then, as he believed he was de trop. 


THE NEW CINDERELLA. 


329 


Long since, Mabel had grown to love, with all the ardor 
of her loving nature, the man whose kind heart had given 
light to her dark and dreary being. 

Yes, he had sent his aunt to her. But she, worthy 
woman, insisted she must try and prove the girl first. 

“ You were sorely tried, Mabel,’’ Arthur said, reverting 
to her first days after leaving her uncle’s house; “but my 
aunt would have it so.” 

“ I am glad she did, Arthur ; I would not have gone, 
otherwise. I had learned to detest a home of wealth and 
fashion. I only wanted love.” 

“Will this home and all the love and devotion of its 
owner satisfy you, Mabel? Tell me now, darling; and 
remember, I shall not be satisfied with gratitude. You 
must never speak of that again. Only love, your love, I 
want.” 

“ But Mira ? ” she murmured. 

“Was never loved like you. Do you love me, Mabel?’’ 

“ I have, ever since the day you found me so unhappy.” 

“ My darling ! my own ! ” he whispered. 

Mrs. Mapleton had the pleasure of saying, “ My niece, 
Mrs. Arthur Graham,” at last, but not just as she wished. 
She is again in quest of a suitable person to call her nephew. 
And often Uncle Mark says, ‘‘ Mabel is a beauty. Truly 
love works wonders.” 


WHO WINS? 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

A PARTY of merry village maidens had gathered in 
their favorite resort, a beautiful shaded grove, and 
under the branches of a magnificent oak they sat weaving 
garlands of wild flowers. 

“ How dreadfully dull our village has grown ! I declare, 
I’m positively pining away, almost to a skeleton. If some- 
thing does not turn up to relieve this monotony, and pro- 
duce a reaction — ^in a word, put new life into me — I shall 
die ! ” exclaimed Madge Hunter, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked 
girl of eighteen, weighing at least a hundred and forty 
pounds. 

Madge’s words and tragic manner brought forth a peal 
of laughter from her companions ; but above their voices 
sounded another, a loud, full, hearty laugh. The girls 
turned quickly, and exclaimed simultaneously : 

Uncle Phil ! ” 

The merriest old bachelor that ever lived was Uncle Phil 
Freeman. The girls all loved him, and his great delight 
was to make them happy. He had stolen quietly up to 
where they were, and heard Madge’s declaration. 

“ Poor little Madge ! Uncle Phil must see if he cannot 
bring back the roses to your cheeks, and tie you in some 
way to this world, or I’m fearful the first hard wind wiU 
blow you away. What can I do for you ? 


WHO WINS? 


331 


“ Oh, Uncle Phil, Madge is just dying for a flirtation — 
that is it, I know. She has been behaving herself won- 
derfully well, really. Peyton Marsden has been away six 
months, and Madge has not attempted to break any poor 
fellow’s heart yet,” said one of the merry girls. 

“A very good reason, she has had no chance. Indeed, 
it is positively a doleful story to relate, that there has 
neither been an engagement declared nor a marriage cere- 
mony performed in our village for over a year. I declare, 
I shall leave here, and take up my abode, not in another 
world, but in some other place in this one, where I shall 
not stand such a chance of spending the rest of my days 
in single blessedness. Just think of a place that cannot 
boast of one marriageable young man ! Horrors I I’m off 
now,” exclaimed Kate Harlow. 

“ No, no ; not just yet. I’ve hope for you. Wait, and 
hear the news,” said Uncle Phil. 

“ Oh, I suppose you are going to tell us the Arrow has 
reached New York, and in a few days we shall have Pey- 
ton Marsden back, and the wedding soon after.” 

“ No. That may all happen, but there is a chance for 
another wedding. Yours, may be. You know Marm 
Haven advertised for boarders. Well, she has got ’em — a 
young gentleman from Boston, with his invalid mother.” 

How does any one know he is either young or single ? 
asked Kate. 

“ Why, if he was old and double^ most likely some of the 
sick lady’s grandchildren would be more apt to attend her. 
Don’t you see? — And then hear his name — Paul Revere! 
Is that the name for an old fellow with a wife and a dozen 
young ones ? ” 

“ No, no. You are right, Uncle Phil. He is young, un- 
married, handsome, and — ” 

“Rich? Yes, rich too; for Marm Haven read me the 


332 


WHO WINS? 


letter, in which he said they wanted the very best accom- 
modations, with the attendance of a servant for his mother. 
For both, a liberal price would be paid. They will remain, 
if agreeably situated, three months. Now, if one of you 
five girls do not succeed in catching Mr. Paul, I’ll disown 
all of you.” 

“ Five? No, Uncle Phil, there are only four. Madge is 
out of the question,” said Kate. 

“That’s so. It is well for you she is. Now, who will 
catch him? Madge, as you are not interested, you shall 
express your opinion about the merits of each, and their 
respective chances. Now begin.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Phil, I’m gaining flesh and strength already. 
No danger of my leaving the world now. When is he 
coming? This is just what I want! What fun we shall 
have — you and I — watching these girls I If he only knew 
what danger he was coming into I It requires a man of 
great courage to come into a village where there are four 
spinsters waiting to nab him. But then, as he knows 
nothing of this, we cannot accredit him with an over- 
amount of bravery,” said Madge. 

“ Well, wellj begin. What say you of Kate’s chance? ” 
said Uncle Phil. 

“About the best, I should think. Besides her own per- 
sonal charms — Kate is really handsome, you know — there 
is her father’s wealth, which may weigh very heavily in 
her favor.” 

“ May be so,” said Uncle Phil. 

“ Rose May’s golden curls and laughing blue eyes will 
have a powerful effect on the young man, if he is a dark, 
gipsy-looking one, as I think he ought to be, with that 
name. Ada Kendall has her glorious brown eyes to make 
a charge with, and being supported with wit, intelligence, 
and her altogether charming manner, I should not wonder 


WHO WINS? 


333 


if the young- man yielded at once to her, particularly if he 
has any aspiration to secure a wife who will be a very 
brilliant star in the fashionable firmament.” 

“Very likely. You are rendering full justice to your 
companions’ charms, Madge. Now last comes little Dora. 
What of her ? ” 

“ Dora ! Let me think.” 

“ Never mind, Madge, please. I will relieve you of a 
difficult task — that is, to find anything at all charming 
about me. I will sum up my possessions : plain-looking, 
a little short of positive ugliness ; only moderately intelli- 
gent; poor, and almost friendless — ” 

“No, no, Dora, you must not talk so. You are not so 
brilliant, or strikingly handsome, as these other girls; there- 
fore your chance is not quite so good. You, shy little bird, 
have to be known to be appreciated. You know Uncle 
Phil calls you his Daisy — for you always hide away, and 
never let folks have a chance of seeing how lovely 3mu 
really are. Now, if I were the young gentleman in ques- 
tion, and in search of true happiness, I should certainly 
choose you ; for every day I lived with you would reveal 
new beauties in your nature. You dear, loving, earnest, 
devoted little thing, you are just too good for any man — 
except Uncle Phil,” said Madge, winding her arms about 
Dora Brownson. 

“ I cannot flatter myself any others will regard me as 
you, Madge, or as Uncle Phil does.” 

“ Well, well, Madge and I just as lief others wouldn’t. 
We would like to keep you from anybody that might win 
you away from us. Mine you are to be, any how, eventu- 
ally, either in one relation or another, just which you 
choose — the old man’s darling, daughter, or wife. Now, 
young ladies, you all understand Dora has a standing offer; 
which, however, will not in any way prevent her entering 


334 WHO WINS? 

the list against 'you in the coming contest,” said Uncle 
Phil. 

It was growing dark, and the girls separated for their 
respective homes. Three of them were already busy with 
thoughts and plans to captivate Paul Revere, who would 
arrive that day week. Uncle Phil had told them. Kate, 
Rose and Ada regarded each other with anxious, jealous 
hearts. They had no fears of Dora. Quite likely Paul 
Revere’s eyes might never behold her. She seldom was 
seen at any gay resort, her time and care being all devoted 
to a very infirm grandmother, Dora’s only living relative. 

If the girls had, for an instant, thought of her as a rival, 
should the young gentleman see her, which might likely 
be brought about through Uncle Phil’s agency, their minds 
were set entirely at ease. A few days after the evening 
they were together in the grove, Dora’s grandmother grew 
very ill, and the devoted girl never left her side. 

How busy the girls were during the next week, collect- 
ing and inspecting their stores of ribbons and laces I 
Dresses were remodelled ; raven braids and golden ringlets 
arranged in numberless different ways, the fair owners 
endeavoring to decide which was the most becoming 
style. Although it would seem almost impossible they 
could find a spare .moment from these important matters 
to get out of the house. Uncle Phil declared positively, and 
no one thought of ever doubting his word, that he had 
seen Rose, Kate and Ada, each at different hours, chatting 
with Harm Haven every day, during the week before the 
arrival of her boarders. And he had heard her say that 
she never knew before how very sweet and agreeable those 
girls were. She wondered how it was she had never 
found it out, as long as she had known them. But then 
somehow or other, she had never seen so much of them 
as lately. 


WHO W I K 8 ? 


335 


How Uncle Phil chuckled when he told Madge, and she 
clapped her dimpled hands and laughed until she cried. 
The fun had commenced already. 

The day for Paul Revere and his mother’s arrival in the 
village at length came, and the three girls, by mutual con- 
sent, were at the station to catch a glimpse of them, or 
rather of Paul. They had very little thought about the 
sick mother, or cared whether she bore her journey well, 
or suffered from the fatigue. Marm Haven’s bound boy, 
with the carry-all, a very uncomfortable vehicle, on which 
hours had been spent in washing and rubbing, to make it 
at all presentable, was in waiting. The girls saw the boy 
step up and speak to a young gentleman, who stood on 
the platform supporting on his arm a pale, elderly woman. 
Another moment and Tim was tugging at one of three 
trunks near by. There was no mistaking then that Paul 
Revere and his mother was before them — but, alas for the 
dark-eyed, magnificent fellow of their dreams — a pleasant, 
moderately good-looking young man, fair, with light hair 
and honest clear blue eyes. Nothing of the romantic or 
poetical about him. 

Down went Rose’s hopes. He would never take to her 
surely. They w^ere too nearly alike. And she did not 
care to have him. She should retire from the field, and 
wait until the dark hero of her dreams should turn up. 

Just as the last trunk was strapped on, and Paul Revere 
was descending with his mother to enter the carry-all. 
Squire Harlow’s large, comfortable carriage drew up in 
front of the station, by chance of course, and Fred jumped 
down and said to his sister : 

‘‘ Want to ride home, Kate ? ” 

Kate did not ; preferred w^alking. And then the kind- 
hearted, thoughtful Fred said : 

“ Then I’m going to offer to take that sick lady up to 


336 


WHO WINS? 


Marm Haven’s. That old concern Tim has there will jolt 
her to death.” 

Kate remarked, apparently very unconcerned : 

‘‘Just as you choose.” 

A few moments after, the girls saw Squire Harlow’s car- 
riage roll away with Paul Revere and his mother. 

Now the mystery of the wild rattle-brain, Fred Harlow, 
becoming so suddenly kind and considerate, might be 
accounted for, with the knowledge of Fred’s displaying a 
handsome pocket-book pretty well filled with stamps, and 
saying his Kate gave it to him. 

The matrons of the village were very kind and attentive 
to Marm Haven’s boarders — none more so than Mrs. Har- 
low. Almost every day her carriage w^as sent for Mrs. 
Revere to take a ride. Her kindness of course was fully 
appreciated by the son, who frequently called at the 
Squire’s, to express his thanks. Kate’s chances were 
admitted by all to be the very best. But Kate was by no 
means a favorite of Madge’s ; and as Rose had withdrawn 
from the contest, Madge determined to give affairs a little 
turn, and let Ada have a chance. Being engaged, as every 
one knew, Madge could act as she chose with regard to 
Paul Revere and his mother, without any one accusing 
her of interested motives. So she did the agreeable to 
Mrs. Revere, and quite won the old lady’s heart. Nowhere 
in the village did she enjoy spending the afternoon so 
much as with Madge and her mother. Of course Paul 
always attended her, and there he met Ada. After which 
she shared his attention with Kate, who, growing uneasy, 
redoubled her efforts, and with very good effect. It was 
impossible for Paul to resist the combined force of the 
Squire, Mrs. Harlow, Fred and Kate, and so was in a fair 
way of being captured. 

If left to his natural impulse, I think Ada would have 


WHO WINS? 


337 


been the successful one. His admiration was very ap- 
parent. 

Uncle Phil and Madge were often with Dora, endeavor- 
ing to cheer her and relieve as much as possible her sad 
duties. Her grandmother was sinking rapidly. 

From these Dora heard of Paul and his mother. Uncle 
Phil had grown quite fond of the young man, and spoke 
with much warmth of his good qualities and devotion to 
his mother. 

“ He is too good for Kate. I think she is selfish, and — 
well, I don’t believe she’ll be any comfort to his mother. 
I wish, little girl, it was so that I could put you in the 
field against her. Well, may be something will turn up 
yet. There is many a slip between cup and lip,” said 
Uncle Phil. 

A few evenings after this remark was made, Mrs. Har- 
low, with Mrs. Revere in the carriage, was out for a drive, 
accompanied by Kate and Paul on horseback. 

Never was Kate so charming, and most likely she would 
have completed her conquest, had not an unforeseen cir- 
cumstance occurred, which brought to both Paul and his 
mother’s knowledge a very disfiguring trait in Kate’s 
character. 

They had neared a pretty little cottage just out of the 
village, when they overtook and stopped to speak to Uncle 
Phil. The usual greeting had scarcely passed, when 
sounds of grief were heard through the open windows of 
the cottage. Another moment, and the door opened, and 
Dora ran out. Seeing Uncle Phil, who started toward 
her, she cried out: 

“ I’m alone now, Uncle Phil ! Grandmother has left me.” 

Uncle Phil caught her in his arms, held her tenderly a 
moment, and then, seeing how quiet she was, he looked 
anxiously on her, and then exclaimed : 

21 


338 


WHO WINS? 


“ Bless me ! the child’s dead herself, I believe I ” 

This exclamation brought Paul immediately to Dora’s 
side, and he said : 

“ No, sir ; not so bad as that. But she has fainted.” 

“ Poor little dear ! she has grown so weak, from confine^ 
ment to the sick-room, she has no strength left to bear the 
grief of parting with her only relative,” said Uncle Phil. 

Kate was annoyed that Paul should be drawn from her 
side thus, and she saw how much he seemed interested in 
Dora. So, forgetting herself, she said : 

“ I do not see why she should go on so. I should think 
she would feel relieved of a great burden. Being released 
from humoring the whims of an exacting old woman is 
nothing to grieve about.” 

This heartless remark reached the ear of both mother 
and son. An anxious expression was in the former’s eyes, 
as they sought Paul’s. His plainly told that the spell was 
broken. He was free again. All Kate’s power had sud- 
denly passed away. He waited until Dora was fully 
restored to consciousness, and kindly cared for by the 
sympathizing neighbors who had gathered about her. 
During the ride home, Kate saw too plainly she had 
ceased to possess any charms for Paul Revere, and deeply 
she regretted the great mistake she had made. 

That evening Uncle Phil called at Harm Haven’s, to get 
her assistance in some kindness for Dora, and while there 
he told of the good girl’s long and untiring devotion to 
her sick grandmother. Mrs. Revere was deeply interested, 
and declared her intention of calling with Harm Plaven 
in the morning. So she did. And many times after, 
when Dora had been claimed by Uncle Phil, and taken to 
his home, where another old lady, Uncle Phil’s sister, 
gladly welcomed her. 

Paul always went with his mother, and sometimes, 


WHO WINS? 


339 


which grew to be often, without her. Of course, at first 
he pitied the poor little orphan, and was endeavoring to 
cheer her. We all know how near akin pity is to love. 
And very soon P|ail knew it too. For Dora had grown 
dearer to him than all the world, excepting his mother. 
And the idea of going from the village and leaving her 
behind, made him very miserable. 

So, after a confidential little chat with Uncle Phil, Paul 
sought Dora, told his love, and won the sweet girl’s promise 
to be his. And so, when Paul returned to his city home, 
a few days after, he was as happy a fellow as ever lived. 
He had heard his mother, when she kissed Dora on part- 
ing, call her “ my daughter.” And he knew the time of 
separation would be short, and then Dora would be all 
his own. 

Early in the autumn the little village was the scene of a 
double wedding : Madge and Peyton Marsden, Dora and 
Paul being the happy couples. Uncle Phil gave the brides 
away, and Pose and Ada acted as bridesmaids, and accom- 
panied them on their wedding tour. 

When, after their return, they visited Paul and Dora in 
their home, Rose met the hero of her dreams ; and Ada 
so bewitched a rising young lawyer that he followed her 
home, and the village is likely to witness another double 
wedding before long. Kate has gone away, as she threat- 
ened, and is trying her luck in a more advantageous 
quarter. 

Uncle Phil, when speaking of the union of Dora and 
Paul, the evening of the wedding, said to Harm Haven : 

“ I tell you, that beauty and vrealth don’t avail much 
unless the heart is all right. Ah, there is in a pure, loving 
nature a beauty that never fails, and wealth that will never 
grow less.” 


% 

THE MIRROR. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

Do you wonder that a mirror 
Should become so like a friend? 

It has seen a life’s beginning, 

It should stay and see the end ! 

I AM a mirror — an old mirror ; though you would not 
believe it, except from my surroundings, which are 
very antique. My face is fair and smooth. Time has 
not put her marks there as on the dear old lady who sits 
opposite me in the old arm-chair — my best friend ! But 
for her, where might I have been now ? She has clung to 
me always ; saved me from banishment to one of the upper 
rooms, the lumber closet, or from — my greatest horror— 
the dealer in second-hand furniture. 

For nearly fifty years I’ve stood on the dressing-bureau 
in the spare bed-room of the “ Old Goodyear Mansion.” 
Three years ago I was in great danger, not only of having 
my heart broken — you don’t believe a mirror has a heart ? 
may be not ; though I have felt joy often, and known sorrow* 
— ^but, dear me ! my face was threatened too. When pretty, 
wilful Jennie returned from school a young lady, she 
wanted to have all the old things cleared out, and modern 
ones in their place. 

I liked the little maid, notwithstanding her unfavorable 
remarks about me. She is the granddaughter of the dear 
( 340 ) 


THE MIEROR. 


341 


old lady, who said, when Jennie urged my removal, “ No, 
no, my darling ! Do not ask me to banish that. It has 
too many fond associations. As a happy bride it first 
reflected my face, glowing with all the love and trust which 
filled my heart. And day after day, for so many years, it 
has witnessed my joys and my sorrows. Oh, no ; I cannot 
part with that, Jennie, dear ! ” 

“ What queer notions grandma has ! ” 

But my story is not so much of Jennie, but her mother : 
the best daughter that ever blessed the heart of any parent ; 
the most unselfish, self-sacrificing woman, the most faith- 
ful wife, the fondest mother! Yes, as all these have I 
looked upon her. 

How well I remember the night she stood before me, 
arraying herself for her “ coming out ball,” on her birth- 
night. Just eighteen then. Not a shade of care on her 
bright, beautiful face. How proud her parents were of 
her 1 Not more so than I, as I reflected back a vision of 
such rare loveliness. Gossamer robes floated around her 
sylph-like form ; the sunii}^ hair was caught back from her 
fair face by a band of pearls, and fell in a shower of ring- 
lets over her drooping shoulders; bright, laughing blue 
eyes looked with a well-pleased gaze on the beautiful 
picture I placed before her. With a bright smile she 
glided away to join the merry company below. 

I waited anxiously for her return. I wanted to know 
how well she was pleased. I knew she would tell me 
truly. How tired I grew before she came ! It was very 
late, or rather early in the next morning, and then her face 
wore a different look. It was more beautiful to me, with 
the sweet, thoughtful expression. The blue eyes no longer 
were dancing, but shone with a dark, earnest light. As 
I she leaned on her hand, and looked into my face, I heard 
I her whisper to herself: 


342 


THE MIRROK. 


“ I am so glad I am pretty. I hope he thinks so ! ” 

Ah ! I knew then what those festive hours had done for 
the merry May Goodyear. Some one had caused her 
young heart to throb wildly, tremble strangely, and flutter 
continually, as if ready and anxious to flee away, and find 
a haven in the breast of some one. Who ? I found out 
pretty soon. A number of her young friends followed her 
in. From them I learned the truth. Earnest Noble, a 
young student from the college a few miles from the man- 
sion, had devoted himself to May all the evening. The 
girls teased her a good deal. “ He was just as handsome as 
could be ! ” they said, “ and so intelligent and charming.” 
‘‘ But dreadfully poor,” chimed in one of the girls ; and 
adding, “ May, you had better smile a little more on Edgar 
Mason — ^he is so rich. Hordes of gold and large tracts of 
land are his ; and may be yours, if you choose.” 

She grew to love the poor, handsome Earnest very dearly. 
One night standing before me, she drew from her bosom a 
picture, and gazed long and fondly upon it, with so much 
love beaming forth from her sweet eyes. And she mur- 
mured : 

“ My Earnest ! ” 

A few da5^s after that I heard a conversation between 
her parents that gave me great pain. My dear, happy 
May would soon be made miserable enough. I knew her 
gentle nature would yield to her parents’ wishes if it broke 
her heart. 

Her father, Albert Goodyear, was dreadfully embar- 
rassed — very much in debt. Edgar Mason held claims 
against him of many thousands. These would all be can- 
celled when Edgar should call him father. Oh ! why did 
I not pass from existence before I reflected the young face 
—no longer young, it seemed then, but aged suddenly — 
when hope had been chased away from her loving heart, 


THE MIRROR. 


343 


and despair dwelt instead, she stood again before me, 
holding in her hand the loved picture. Weeping bitterly, 
she murmured : 

“ It must be so. One more look, and then you must be 
cast out from heart and eye ! Can I do this ? Will my 
heart yield, as well as mind and will ? Father in heaven, 
teach me to do right ! ” 

As a bride she came, after a few weeks, before me, so 
pale, so sad, yet, oh ! so beautiful. 

“ Give me strength. Father ! ” she murmured in prayer, 
as her bridesmaids drew her away. 

As a wife, I frequently heard her pray, “ Strength, dear 
Lord, and make me faithful and true.” 

Edgar Mason loved her, in his way. A selfish, exacting 
love it was. He was a wild, reckless man, fond of sport. 
How her gentle, refined nature was tried by coming in 
contact with the company he brought to his home! I 
used to know of this, when she would come to visit her 
old home, and sit with her mother in the room where I 
dwelt. 

She knew sorrows many and deep — for her husband 
grew to be unkind and suspicious — until the baby Jennie 
was sent to comfort her. Yet she never murmured against 
her unhappy lot. When she would often stand with her 
little one before me, sweet smiles came again on her face — 
not merry, bright smiles ; they had departed, never to re- 
turn again. 

Little Jennie was a sweet babe, and truly a comforter 
for the mother’s saddened heart. Dear May, good, faithful 
and fond, she was content with her baby and her sorrow. 

Years rolled on, and her father passed from earth, saved 
from much of his sorrows by his daughter’s love and sacri- 
fice. Blessings for May were on his dying lips. 

When baby Jennie grew to be baby no longer, but a 


344 


THE MIRROR. 


merry little maid of fifteen, she was fatherless. At thirty- 
five her mother stood before me robed in the widow’s 
weeds. I conld not flatter ; I was always, and still am, 
true. She looked all the years she had known. I often 
wondered, though, if other friends thought her so beautiful 
as I did? 

She returned, in the first day of her widowhood, to her 
childhood’s home, her mother’s side. Those were pleasant 
days to me, to have those I loved so dearly ever near me. 
But brighter days were coming. 

For two years I gazed daily on my favorite, saw her 
devotion and tenderness for her aged mother, her gentle- 
ness and fond care with the wayward Jennie. Every hour 
I found some new virtue to love her for. Oh, why was 
her life blasted ? Why should such a heart be so crushed 
in its young hopes ? I continually wondered and grieved 
much over her sad lot, which she never did, I truly be- 
lieve. 

One night — Jennie’s birth-night party it was — she left 
the merry young folks, and came up to the room where I 
was. Grandmother was away then, and we — May and I 
— were all alone. She locked the room door and came up 
to me, took from her pocket a little key and opened a 
drawer that had not been looked into for a long, long 
while — a little drawer which held things very dear to 
her. 

“ To-night, oh I to-night my mind goes back to my own 
happy hours, when I was as merry as my little Jennie. 
God grant her a different fate 1” she murmured, and drew 
forth the tiny little case which I had seen her hide away 
eighteen years before. Holding it in her hand, she said : 

“ Now, after all these years, I may, I must look on the 
face once so dear ! ” 

Opening the case, she gazed on the miniature. Her eyes 


THE MIEEOR. 


345 


filled ; one large tear stole gently down and settled on the 
picture. She drew forth her handkerchief, wiped away the 
tell-tale drop, and pressed her lips where it had rested. 
^^Once so dear!” And still so dear, I thought. She gave 
a shy, frightened look at me ; a bright flush was on her 
usually pale face, and she whispered ; 

“ Is this wrong ? No, no, it cannot be 1 Earnest, where 
are you to-night ? Oh, I wonder if he ever thinks of me, 
and how ? ’Tis not likely, during all these years, he has 
cherished any love for one he must have thought so false 
as I. Oh, if I could only have explained to him how it 
was ! ” 

And then she dropped her dear head on her hand, and 
wept beside me. Oh, I wished then for wings, that I 
might flee away and find her Earnest, and bring him back 
to love and her. 

She closed the case saying, ^‘Enough, enough of this. 
He may now be a loving husband. God bless him, and 
make him happy I ” She hid her treasure again, and re- 
turned to the merry ones below. 

Frequently, after that, she came and looked at the 
miniature. She seemed to grow quite cheerful, and no 
longer wept over it. Once I heard her murmur : 

“ I know not how this is, but I am constantly watching 
for his coming now, as I used to then. I dream of him as 
then ; and my heart seems waiting its other self. Oh, will 
it ever come ? I feel it must. Some day all will be well 
—all known, all forgiven.” 

A few months after that, Jennie danced into the room. 
Holding up a card for a moment, she tossed it into her 
mother’s lap, saying : 

A stranger, mamma. I have never seen or heard of 
him before.” 

May glanced at the name. A bright flush swept over 


346 


THE MIEROR. 


her pale face. The blue eyes seemed to have caught a 
brighter light, as she came forward and stood before me. 
“ She cares a little to look pretty again,” I thought, as she 
arranged a delicate white frill around the neck of her black 
dress. I did not hnow^ but I thought much. And I waited 
as anxiously her return, as once years before. 

“Why, mamma, how pretty, how young you look I I 
have never seen you look as now!” exclaimed Jennie, 
when, after two hours’ absence, her mother returned. 

I knew why. And soon I heard her say to grand- 
mamma, “ Earnest is down-stairs, mamma. May he come 
up to see you ? ” 

The dear old lady was happy too in her child’s joy. 

I saw him then for the first time — the earnest, noble 
man. He was worthy of her love. Yesterday I saw him 
again. He stood beside his wife, our darling May. And 
now that I have seen her so happy, I am willing, should 
they choose, to be displaced by one more modern ; none 
more true can they find. There is a bright light shining 
on my face to-night — a light from her dear eyes. The 
light that has at last broken in on her dark, sorrowing 
path, as to her and to me, will come to all faithful and true; 
no matter how dark the path, light at last I 


THE MAN HATERS. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

6; O TRANGER, can you tell me any place near by where 

kJ) I can obtain a night’s lodging? ” inquired a young 
man, who was riding leisurely along through the beautiful 
valley of V . 

The man thus accosted drew his rein, and waited until 
the other came up to his side, and then deliberately sur- 
veying him, said : 

“Well, no, none near by. The village is six miles off. 
There’s a nice house there for travellers, you will find.” 

“ No, indeed. I’ll not find myself there to-night, if there 
is any other shelter nearer. I am dreadfully tired now. 
Why, there,” pointing with his whip to the southwest, “ I 
see what looks from this distance like a very spacious 
building. I should think it would afford accommodation 
for hundreds. Can’t I stop there, think you ? ” 

Another long deliberate look from the old man, with a 
comical expression after, and breaking into a chuckling 
little laugh, he answered : 

“ Hardly, if your life depended on it.” 

“Why not?” 

“ ’Cause, you’re too young, and far too good-looking. 
Come along, sir. ’Tan’t no use to be wasting your time 
casting longing looks toward the hall. It looks cloudy, 
and night is drawing nigh. There is no hope for you 

( 347 ) 


348 


THE MAN HATERS. 


there, for if the rain was to come as it did in Noah’s time, 
they wouldn’t let you in up there. Come on. My place 
is only a mile up the road, and although it is hardly the 
place for a starchy young chap like you, still I’ll do the 
best I can for you. Betsey will give you as good a bowl 
of milk as the valley affords, and toss you up a short-cake 
in less time : and you’re welcome, if you will.” 

“ Thank you, friend : and if your Betsey is like you, I 
shall be far better suited than in the public house of the 
village. But you have excited my curiosity about that 
great house on the hill there. You say they would not 
take me in. Who are they ? ” 

“ The women folks — ” 

‘‘Women are usually kind, considerate, charitable — ” 

“ Other women may be, and are, but not the Chapmans. 
That is, not to men folks : they hate men, even such poor 
specimens as I. Although lame, old and nearly blind, 
they won’t let me inside the inner gate. And the likes of 
you, I truly think that Old Hit Mankind would set the 
dogs on you, and believe she was giving you your deserts,” 
said the old man, with another chuckling laugh. 

“And who is she? And how can I possibly have 
incurred her ill-will ? ” asked the young traveller. 

“ She’s the portress. Her name .is Mehitabel Mankin. 
But the folks round about here have shortened and changed 
her name to suit her nature. You or any other good-look- 
ing young man is her abomination, and her mistresses, 
every one of them, feel just as Hit does. In fact, they 
have taught her to think men the awfulest animals that 
live.” 

“ Ha ! ha I How I would like to get a peep at those 
folks. They are an interesting set, truly. How many are 
there living there ? ” 

“ Seven of the ladies — six of the hands.” 


THE MAN HATERS 


349 


^^All women ? ” 

“ Just so.” 

Old and ugly, every one, I’m sure.” 

“ Now you never was more mistaken in your life. They 
are not very young, except Miss Silvia, their niece. She 
is not seventeen, and my Betsey says the sun never shown 
on such a perfect beauty as she. And her six aunts are 
all handsome. The Chapmans were always noted for their 
good looks, and of late years they have been noted for 
something else — ” 

“ Their hatred of our sex, you mean, I suppose. But 
surely the beautiful Silvia does not feel so too ? ” 

“ W «il, she has had no chance of thinking for herself. She 
has never seen a man, that I know of, except old Father 
Goodman, the priest, who comes to their chapel to say mass. 
They never go out to church. Pretty Miss Silvia could no 
more judge of men’s looks by Father Goodman’s than any- 
body could imagine your appearance by mine. But, Mis- 
ter, we have been talking for fifteen minutes, and no names 
called. Mine is John Freeman, cooper by trade.” 

“A good honest name and trade. Mine is Paul Hartley, 
and my profession an artist.” 

“Jerusalem! If them folks on the hill knew that a 
picter painter was within a mile of ‘ The Hall,’ they would 
call out the whole pack of hounds, and run you out of the 
neighborhood. Oh, I’d like to see old Hit’s eyes flash if 
she knowed your nearabouts,” said John Freeman, and the 
woods reechoed his merry, ringing laugh. 

“ Do tell me all about those women, and who they are. 
Men haters, and particular artist detesters? Something 
must have happened to have so changed their natures. 
I’m sure there is a story to tell about that hall.” 

“ That’s so. But here is my cot. Alight I I’ll attend 
to your horse. Betsey, make this young gentleman 
welcome.” 


350 


THE MAN HATERS, 


Betsey came to the door smiling, and a very good-look- 
ing woman she was. Pan! felt quite easy about trusting 
himself to her care. Pushing forward her best chair, and 
soon after handing Paul a glass of cool water, she hurried 
out to get ready what her John had promised. 

It was not long ere John and Paul Hartley returned to 
their conversation concerning the Chapmans, and Paul 
urged that his host should tell him their story. But John 
would not. He was a generous fellow, and although he 
dearly loved a chance to talk and tell stories, his Betsey 
was very fond of the same way of spending a spare hour, 
so he left the pleasure for her, saying : 

No. Wait a bit. Betsey will tell you. She lived at 
the Hall when it happened, and of course knows better 
than I about it.” 

Paul’s mind was filled with thoughts of the beautiful 
Silvia. Soon Betsey came in, spread the cloth, and placed 
upon it a repast which Paul enjoyed very much, simple 
though it was — the rich milk, short-cake and fresh berries. 
When the table had been cleared away, John fixed chairs 
out on the little grass-plot, and bade Betsey tell their guest 
about the folks at the Hall. 

Betsey had told the story so often before that there was 
no hesitancy how to begin. 

“ Oh, it was a sad day that brought young Harry For- 
rester to our house ! He was an artist, and General Chap- 
man met him up to the village, and brought him home to- 
paint Miss Lilly’s picture. She was the youngest of our 
young ladies — seven of them they were, all beauties; but 
she was so different. The General called her his sunbeam, 
she was so bright, with golden hair and dancing blue eyes. 
The other young ladies were all dark of hair and eyes. 
Miss Lilly was only sixteen then, and as different in her 
nature as looks from her sisters. They were, like all the 


THE MAN HATERS. 


351 


Chapman race, prouder than the proudest people of the 
land : no one good enough for them, and that was how they 
never had married. But she. Miss Lilly, was so kind and 
sweet to every one, and treated all that came about lier as 
if they were her equals. So when Mr. Forrester came, my 
ladies kept him in his place. ‘A workman that their papa 
hired and paid,’ they said. But Miss Lilly wouldn’t mind 
their teachings. She was kind to the handsome young man, 
and would talk and walk and sing with him, until the picture 
was finished — nearly two weeks. And then one morning, 
when we woke up, the painter was gone. He did not take 
the General’s money for pay, but his heart’s delight instead. 
Miss Lilly went with him. Oh, that dreadful day I They 
left a letter begging forgiveness, and telling where in Kich- 
mond a letter would reach them. The truth was told as 
easy as could be to her mother, who was in poor health. 
But she never got over it : she died within the week. And 
then the General he swore he’d never forgive his child, and 
had her letter returned to the place they said, and ordered 
the postmaster to return any that might come from that 
place. 

“ The General never was like himself afterward. A year 
and a little over went by, when one day I was gathering 
fruit in the orchard. The stage came rumbling down the 
road and stopped. I ran up to see who the visitor might 
be. And when the driver opened the door and assisted 
out a lady, at first I could not make out who she was ; and 
hardly then, when she pushed aside her black crape veil, 
could I believe my eyes. So changed, pale and sorrowful 
she looked. Miss Lilly it was. 

‘‘ She looked ill. And oh ! woe to me I I might have 
known better. But I was young and thoughtless, and when 
she whispered, ^ Bessie, where is mamma ? Let me see her 
first. She will forgive me,’ I cried out : 


352 


THE MAN HATERS. 


“ ‘ Oh, Lord help you, Miss Lilly ! Your mother is dead 
long ago : the week you went away.’ 

‘‘Oh, I knew what I’d done then. 

“ She put out her hands, and a deep sob only told that 
she had heard me, when she dropped down at my feet. I 
screamed for help. We got her to the Hall. She never 
spoke after. That night she died : and a little babe slept 
in the cradle her mother had laid in in her baby days. 

“ In the trunk which came with Miss Lilly were some 
little clothes marked ‘ Silvia,’ and so the baby was called. 

“Nothing more was known about her or Mr. Harry. 
We thought that she was, or believed herself a widow, from 
her deep black clothes. The General went straight out of 
his mind then — knew nothing more than a baby after. 
Things became dreadfully tangled up in his business con- 
cerns, and in six months more he died. And then, from 
being thought the richest folks in the State, the ladies found 
out they only had the homestead left. There was cheating 
by some of the General’s relations. And somehow, evil 
folks managed to set out a report that Miss Lilly had been 
deserted by the father of Miss Silvia, and that she had 
been deceived by the handsome young artist. And so the 
ladies either had no more faith in any man, or may be 
they were afraid to try and find anything out about Mr. 
Harry, for truth might be worse than uncertainty. So they 
have become man haters ; never go about and visit. Keep 
only women about them, and live only for themselves. 
Folks say it is all a punishment for their pride. Poor Miss 
Silvia ! I pity her. She is just like her mother, and it 
is a shame to keep her imprisoned so. That is the story 
of the Chapmans, sir,” said Betsey, in conclusion. 

That night Paul Hartley dreamed of Silvia, and awoke 
in the morning, his mind filled with thoughts and plans 
for her delivery. 


THE MAN HATERS. 


353 


Betsey Freeman was very much pleased with her young 
guest, and when he promised to return in a short time and 
paint John’s and her pictures, her heart was quite won, 
and she was ready to enter into Paul’s plans for getting an 
insight of the Hall. 

“Yes, sir; I do think may be a peddler, if he was old 
and ugly, and had in his pack some domestic table linen 
and such things, might get in ; for I heard Hit say they 
wanted such, and if I could not go to town to buy them, 
she would have to,” said Betsey. 

Paul bade adieu to John and his wife, and pushed into 
the latter’s hand a full compensation for her kindness. 

Ten days after, when Betsey was up at the Hall, she was 
not very much surprised to hear Hit Mankin come in and 
state the presence of an old preddler, with just such things 
as they wanted. 

A consultation, in which the six sisters were all present, 
then took place, the result being the admission of the 
peddler. 

The beauty of Silvia might well have thrown the old 
peddler completely off his guard, had he not been well 
disciplined. With childlike curiosity, she drew near to 
see the pack opened. 

Throwing one after another piece of such things as he 
knew they wanted on a table, a little way off from his pack, 
the peddler bade them suit themselves, and then returned 
to the other packages on the floor, out of which peeped 
many bright and pretty things to please the maiden’s eye. 
Eagerly she looked, and from the trinkets inquiringly to 
the face of the peddler, from which, as if by magic, faded 
the hard old look. Betsey stood near, covering the view 
from the busy aunts. The spectacles were removed, and 
eyes dark and eloquent with untold words of admiration 
and affection held hers entranced. Quickly the spectacles 
22 


354 


THE MAN HATERS. 


were resumed, as a warning movement of Betsey told of 
another’s approach. Other articles of interest were thrown 
on the table, and again the coast was clear. Then from 
out of the old buckskin gloves slid a hand soft and as 
delicately formed as her own, into which was pressed a 
little velvet case. Another look into the eyes, whose beauty 
she already felt, and Silvia’s little hand closed over her 
treasure, as a child’s over forbidden fruit, and in another 
moment it was safe from others’ eyes. 

The ladies were well suited with the goods and prices, 
and the peddler departed, with permission to come again 
when he was near by. 

The aunts noticed not that Silvia’s eyes lingered long 
after the peddler’s departing form. 

From that day a new life dawned upon Silvia, a child 
no longer, but a woman in whose heart lived all a woman’s 
love, confidence and devotion. Out from the little velvet 
case looked the pictured face of Paul Hartley — a face to 
teach a woman love — noble, truthful, handsome. And 
when the little slip of paper on which was written “ Trust 
me,” met her eye, she did, fully believing a happy future 
was coming to her. 

Paul had thought so much of Silvia that he almost loved 
before meeting her. A glance at her in her beauty and 
guilelessness completely won his heart’s first love. “ But 
how to win her? to deliver her ? ” he said. 

With his mind and heart filled with these thoughts he 
sought the advice of his uncle, a clergyman residing in 
Richmond. Finding an early opportunity for a conference 
with his relative, he was carried by him into his sanctum. 
Scarcely had he begun his story, when his eyes, wandering 
about the room, fell on a small miniature painting. Spring- 
ing from his seat, he gazed eagerly on the beautiful face, 
and exclaimed ; 


THE MAN HATERS. 


355 


‘‘ Who is this, uncle ? 

Astonished at his nephew’s almost wild eagerness, the 
old gentleman replied : 

“A young friend of ours.” 

“ But her name, uncle ? Quick I Pray tell me. Surely 
it is my Silvia ? ” 

“ No, boy, it is not. That is Mrs. Forrester.” 

“ Heaven ! how strange ! Tell me, uncle, of her. She is 
Silvia’s mother. Where did you know her? ” asked Paul, 
with much agitation. 

“ Why, boy, I married her. It was a runaway match. 
And, poor child, she suffered so much from it. Your aunt 
and I were much attached to them. He, young Forrester, 
was an artist, and I’m sure, if he had lived, would have 
acquired fame and fortune. He painted that picture of 
his wife and gave it to us.” 

“ He did, you say ? When, uncle ? ” 

‘‘In less than a year after his marriage. When the 
cholera raged here, he was one of the first victims. She 
left us to return to her friends, and although with continued 
promises to write to us, we have never heard one word from 
or of her. Your aunt wrote, but never received a reply. 
Now tell me what 3^11 know of her? ” 

Paul told his story, or rather Betsey’s, and of the sus- 
picions set afloat by evil hearts ; and when he had finished 
his uncle said : 

“Poor child! Thank God I can do justice to their 
memory. How wonderfully strange are the ways of 
Providence I Paul, my boy, I think we can smooth your 
path considerably. And let me give you more information, 
which to you and me is of little consequence, but to your 
Silvia’s relatives will be very agreeable. The Forresters — 
Lilly’s husband’s family — are as proud and ancient as the 
Chapmans. Just before Harry’s meeting Miss Chapman, 


356 


THE MAN HATERS. 


he had incurred the severe displeasure of his father by 
refusing decidedly to marry a young lady picked out for 
him. It was a very desirable connection in every respect, 
and old Mr. Forrester had not forgiven Harry for his 
refusal to consummate his great hope when the poor boy 
died. If he ever knew of his marriage, he never acknowF 
edged either it or Harry’s wife, that I know of. I think, 
if you go to the aunts bearing the certificate of Mrs. For- 
rester’s marriage, you will meet with a favorable reception.” 

Harry shook his head, and told how difficult it was for 
any man to gain an interview. “ Only old Father Good- 
man has the entree.” 

‘‘ Goodman ! Bless me ! Father ? What, a priest, you 
mean? ” 

“ Yes, sir : the Rev. Father Goodman.” 

“More and more wonderful! This must be my old 
schoolmate. Will Goodman. I knew he was somewhere in 
the valley. We were the best of friends at school, and I’ve 
no doubt he would be really pleased to see or hear from 
me now. Although we have chosen different paths to find 
our way to Heaven, that is no reason why we should not 
still love each other here as we shall there. It will be all 
right, Paul. I’d like a trip through that section. We will 
start to-morrow morning, find Father Goodman, and I 
think he will take us to Chapman Hall.” 

It was as Paul’s uncle had said. Father Goodman was 
very much delighted to see his old friend and school-mate ; 
and when the good clergyman, Mr. Hartley, told him his 
business, and produced a copy of the marriage certificate 
of Lilly Chapman and Harry Forrester, the kind-hearted 
Father would not delay an hour, but declared he must go 
directly and carry that balm to the wounded hearts of the 
Chapmans. 

It would have done John Freeman good to have seen the 
amazed look of Hit Mankin when Father Goodman entered 


THE MAN HATERS. 


357 


the lodge, accompanied by two very handsome men, and 
bade her to proceed and announce their presence to her 
mistresses. 

What the Father did and said was right, not one of the 
inmates of Chapman Hall ever doubted. Still a grave 
look settled on the faces of the six sisters when Hit did 
Father Goodman’s bidding. Three of them entered the 
reception room. A little while, and the grave looks gave 
place to those of thankfulness, aye, even joy. A moment 
more, ahd Hit Mankin, if present, would have witnessed 
a sight which would likely have blinded or killed her, 
namely, her mistresses’ hands clasped in those of men I and 
heard them simultaneously exclaim, “ Welcome ! welcome ! ” 

None but those who knew of such pride as the Chap- 
mans possessed, can imagine the relief,, the joy, which was 
given them by Father Goodman’s and his friend’s visit. 
The name of Chapman still remained spotless, pure and 
proud, as in long years gone by. 

It was a day of rejoicing. And Silvia, the image of her 
mother, the memory of whom had grown then so doubly 
dear, was brought in to see her mother’s friend. There 
was no show of surprise in Silvia’s greeting of Paul. Really 
it was no surprise at all. She had learned to love him, 
trust and wait his coming, which her heart constantly 
whispered, “ will be soon.” 

From that day there was a radical change in the inmates 
of Chapman Hall. Men came and went once more. Paul 
soon won the kind favor of all ; and when, with Silvia’s 
hand clasped in his, he went and begged her aunts’ per- 
mission to hold it as his own forever, they smiled, and 
blessed the young folks’ love. 

Since then, one and another of the Chapman sisters have 
placed confidence sufficient in men to trust their hearts to 
their keeping. Three are married now. “And the pride 
which fills their bosoms now is the pride of motherhood.” 


LOW BORN. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

You held your course, without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth ; 

And last you fixed a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your pride of birth. — Tennyson. 

A ND this is the end ! All the fond hopes of years to 
be lost thus ! Regina, why is this ? ” 

In a low but firm voice, she said : 

“ Bury the past. Your future and mine will never be 
united. Go ! leave me ! ” 

“ Enough, Regina ; I go at your bidding, and at your 
bidding will hasten to return. I know you love me, and 
will wait until you say Come ! ” 

“ Why have you sent John Warner away ? ” asked gentle 
Annie Seyton, Regina’s cousin, a few hours after, when 
they were alone. 

“ Why, you ask me, Annie Seyton ? Are we not of a 
race proud and old? Should a Seyton wed with one 
inferior ? Is the son of a blacksmith a worthy mate for 
me ? I should never hope for a moment’s peace. I should 
be continually haunted by returning spirits of ni}^ old 
ancestors coming back to upbraid me. Nay, my heart 
may break, but my pride of birth will forever remain true 
and firm,” she answered. 

Proudly standing, her beautiful head thrown haughtily 

( 358 ) 


LOW B O E N . 


369 


back, her dark eye flashing brightly, while on her coral 
lips lurked an expression of scorn as Annie replied : 

is no one’s inferior. What his parentage is I know 
not, nor care. I too am proud, and would that my hus- 
band, whoever he may be, shall be of blood noble and 
great. Consider, Regina! recall John Warner, and be 
happy. He is noble through his own actions, true and 
good. These qualities will be appreciated by his fellow- 
men. In time he will be great. The future must and 
will accord him that. I feel it ! ” 

“John Warner! Ah! I might have known it, by that 
name. Yes, Percy St. Clair has told me true. And now 
adieu to all thoughts of love with him! Perhaps you 
could console him, little . coz ! you have such an exalted 
opinion of him ! ” said Regina, with a slight sneer on her 
beautiful face. 

A crimson tide swept over Annie’s pale face, then leav- 
ing it paler than before, and telling a secret that she had 
tried so long to keep. 

“Forgive me, Annie, I am not happy.” And proud 
Regina Seyton dropped her head and wept bitter, hope- 
less tears. 

These two young girls had met with John Warner, a 
rising young lawyer, two years before. They both liked 
him. Every one did. His heart yielded to Regina’s 
beauty and fascinating manner, and poor little Annie hid 
her love away deep down in her pure, true heart. 

Before John Warner came in his way, Percy St. Clair 
felt quite sure of winning the proud Regina. But after 
that, with great disappointment and mortification, he saw 
her smiling upon and encouraging the young lawyer. 

Percy set himself to work to find out something against 
young Warner. But that was impossible. He was be- 
yond reproach. At length, however, he obtained the in- 


360 


liOW BOKN. 


formation so precious to him, namely, the obscure and 
humble parentage of his rival. He knew well Regina’s 
great pride of birth, and he felt confident of the effect this 
knowledge would have with her. And so true it proved, 
and Percy St. Clair’s hopes were high. Thoughts of 
speedy success filled his mind. 

Three years after, Percy St. Clair’s long perseverance was 
rewarded. Regina became his wife. A few days previous 
to the marriage, Annie Seyton was with her cousin, looking 
over and arranging the magnificent wedding-dress. The 
costly veil she held admiringly up before her, and then 
approaching Regina, threw it over her, and with skilful 
fingers placed the orange wreath over the beautiful brow, 
and drawing her up to the mirror, said : 

How exquisite ! how lovely you look ! See, Regina ! ” 
But the proud girl’s thoughts were far away back with 
the past. Annie’s repeated words brought her back to the 
miserable present ; and giving a deep-drawn sigh, a hasty 
glance toward the mirror, she tore the veil from her head, 
and throwing it down, exclaimed : 

“ Why do you wish to force on me a glimpse of the 
hopeless future? ’Tis like erecting the scaffold under the 
eye of the condemned criminal.” And a bitter mocking 
laugh followed her passionate words. 

“ Regina Seyton, how dare you take upon yourself those 
solemn vows, feeling as you do ? Girl, you will perjure 
your soul ! You still love John Warner ! ” 

“ Forget my foolish words, Annie. No doubt I shall do 
very well. Percy loves me^ and— I— shall do my duty. 
So do not worry about me.” 

Enough, my cousin ; you will not heed my warning. 
But oh ! my heart is filled with deep anxiety. You have 
chosen your path ; may it not be one of endless thorns. 
You have trampled under foot the love of a true, noble 


LOW BORN. 


361 


man. May you be happy ! May Percy St. Clair prove 
worthy of the proud race he represents. The future must 
decide between these two men. You have already.” 

A few more weeks and John Warner, in his far Western 
home, received the intelligence of Regina Seyton’s mar- 
riage. It was a hard, bitter blow — one he almost sank 
beneath. He had struggled so hard, and was still strug- 
gling to obtain laurels to lay at her feet. Now that bright 
dream was over. But time soothed his sorrow. And 
again he began his onward career ; now heart and mind 
all given to ambition. Rapid was his advancement in the 
opinion of the people of his adopted State. One position 
after another, each of increasing importance, was given 
him. Annie Seyton watched with deep interest the 
political career of her friend, proud that he was so well 
appreciated. 

Five years of Regina’s married life had passed away. 
Five long, weary years they had been — burdened with a 
weight of vague uneasiness and dark forebodings. Night 
after night found her husband absent from his home — 
engaged in what she knew not. 

They lived in a style of magnificence unsurpassed by 
any of their friends. How that was continued, Regina 
often wondered. She knew that Percy was considered 
very wealthy ; but he must have, in those years since their 
marriage, spent an almost princely fortune. When she 
first knew him, and for three or four years after, he had a 
large income from the rents of property and interest from 
bank stock. But now he attended to nothing of the kind. 
His days were spent almost entirely in sleep, and the 
nights— how ? She feared to think. 

At last the knowledge was forced upon her in a terrible 
^ray— the arrest of a party of counterfeiters, among whom 
was found Percy St. Clair ! It was a bitter blow to Regina. 


LOW BORN. 


362 ■ 

other women Tvould have grieved that the man they loved 
was suspected, or guilty of crime. But she writhed in an 
agony of mortification. The man whose name she bore — 
with whose her own, so proud and old, was coupled — 
was then used in connection with others’ steeped in 
crime! 

What was John AVarner doing during those years? 
Advancing swiftly upward to a brilliant career. While 
the papers were filled with accounts of Percy St. Clair’s 
deed of dishonesty and arrest, the name of John Warner, 

as Senator from , often appeared in their columns, with 

frequent accounts of his brilliant intellect, his universal 
popularity with all parties, for his nobility of character, 
his great and good deeds. 

Gentle Annie Seyton still remained single. Many hearts 
had been placed before her ; but kindly she sent them 
forth. She had love for none. She had loved once, and 
that was forever. Her home was with Regina, and it was 
from her counsel the miserable wife drew much comfort. 

One day during that time of trial, Annie read from the 
morning paper the arrival of John Warner. His great 
ability as a lawyer they well knew. Annie suggested that 
her cousin should seek his advice ; he could point them to 
the best course. Annie knew what a true heart was his. 
They could seek him and secure his friendship, she felt 
sure. 

And so it was that Regina wrote, Will you come ? ” 
and sent it to the hotel. 

A few hours after, and he was awaiting her. How 
wildly her heart was throbbing I How could she meet him 
again, and thus ? He so high in worldly favor ; she so 
crushed. His calm but cordial greeting somewhat relieved 
her. With the freedom of an old and sincere friend, he 
spoke of her trouble, alluding to St. Clair as the one most 


LOW BORN. 


363 


dear to her.” He advised that his present liberty be 
obtained, and offered his own name for the security cus- 
tomary in such cases. That was done, and then carefully 
John Warner examined, with Percy’s lawyer, the details 
of the evidence against him in the case. 

But no hope of proving the innocence of the miserable 
man was found. Guilt was everywhere visible. Nothing 
could save him from conviction and long imprisonment, 
they both knew well ; and Percy St. Clair knew it too. 

But he was not going to risk that, while one chance of 
relief was available. Lost to all sense of honor or pride, 
he determined to sacrifice his bondsman, and fly. 

A few hours after John Warner’s return to Washington, 
this intelligence reached him. In his heart he was glad. 
He sat down immediately and wrote to Regina : 

Give yourself no uneasiness on my account. I would 
willingly give that amount to secure you a release from 
any sorrow. I am alone in the world, and care little for 
its possessions. Rely always on my assistance whenever 
you may wish it.” 

Regina read this, and puzzled her brain trying to decide 
if any of the deep love that he bore her long ago remained 
now. Was it so, or only a remembrance of it, that made 
him so kind? She set herself to work disposing of all the 
magnificence by which she was surrounded, endeavoring 
to secure as much as possible, to return the amount lost to 
her true friend. But this soon became unnecessary. 

Percy St. Clair, during his flight to Canada, thinking 
himself discovered, and about being apprehended, sprang 
from the cars while in rapid motion, was terribly crushed, 
and lived only a few hours after. 

When this news came to John Warner, how did it affect 
him? Had his love all died out? She was free again 
now— the woman he had loved so deeply. Did the old 


364 


LOW BORN. 


love burn up anew ? Months passed on, and Regina was 
getting over the great shock she had received by Percy’s 
sad end, when again the announcement of Mr. Warner’s 
arrival was in the paper. Annie felt sure he would call. 
She believed he still loved her cousin. Regina would not 
reject him again, she thought, and she would be happy in 
his happiness. He did come, and frequently, during his 
stay in the city. 

The love that Regina had crushed, not conquered, so 
long ago, began to revive, yes, and burn deeper than be- 
fore. Proudly she welcomed his coming. She no longer 
thought of his humble birth. She had found how little 
happiness and how much misery her pride had brought 
her. She knew then of what she should be proud. Won- 
dering that he spoke not, watching and waiting for the 
happy time that should bring her love again, Regina 
doubted not that some day before long it must come. 

“Twilight dreams?” asked John Warner, as, unan- 
nounced, he entered the library. “ At length I’ve found 
you alone! How I’ve watched for some little word or look 
to bid me hope! You know how confident I was once of 
love returned. Am I to meet with such a fate again? I 
love you, dear — ” 

“Stop! You mistake! ’Tis I, only Annie, not Regina; 
she is not home,” said the gentle girl, as she tried to with- 
draw the hand he had taken. 

“ My dear Annie, I mistake not. ’Tis you I love. Have 
you seen it? Speak! I must know my fate quickly. 
Annie, have you no love to give me ? ” 

“ But Regina ! I thought it was her you loved,” mur- 
mured Annie, still doubting that such joy was for her. 

“ Regina will never be any more to me than now, Annie. 
That love died out years ago. You alone I love. Will 
you try to return me a little, for all I give you, Annie ? ” 


LOW BORN. 365 

He passed his arm around her, and drew her down beside 
him. 

She could no longer resist such happiness. His love 
hers ! That was joy unhoped for. Annie’s head rested on 
his broad breast, and she wept — such happy tears ! 

“You do love me, little one?” he said. And then she 
told him all — how long, and how well, and how hopelessly 
she had loved him ! 

“How should she tell Regina?” she thought. “How 
give her the knowledge which she knew would almost 
crush the life from out her heart ?” And Annie’s great 
happiness was clouded by thoughts of her cousin’s sorrow. 
But that knowledge had already reached Regina. Return- 
ing from her walk, she entered the conservatory, adjoining 
the library. Hearing the dearly loved voice, she listened 
a moment, and on her ear fell the hope-crushing words : 

“ That love died out years ago. You alone I love nowP^ 

Locked in her own chamber, despair marked on every 
feature of her pale face, 'was Regina, in an agony of disap- 
pointed love. 

“ Lost ! lost !” she groaned forth. “ Oh, pride, miserable 
pride ! Why did I listen to your whispers ? And how 
have you rewarded me? Always with disappointment 
and mortification I Oh, this is too bitter a cup ! And I 
shall have to drain it to the last drop I There, false heart, 
lie dead ! awake no more to life or love ! And now I must 
go down, and wreathe once more my lips with smiles so 
false. Now, oh pride, come to me ! With some of thy 
better qualities, help me hide my misery I I must con- 
gratulate those happy ones. Yes, go to love’s funeral! ” 
And again, as in days long before, came forth that bitter, 

I mocking laugh. 

I An hour after saw her gracefully glide into the library, 
where the. happy lovers still sat, with no thought of time. 

1 ’ 


366 


LOW BOKN. 


And approaching them with a pleasant smile, which 
changed for an instant to one of seeming surprise, and 
then brightening again, as she appeared to comprehend the 
situation, out went her little hand to clasp his, and in 
words sweet and deceiving, she expressed her wishes for 
his happiness : while on Annie’s lips she pressed a kiss, 
and whispered, “ You deserve to be happy.” 

The kiss and words to Annie were truly sincere. She 
could not feel a thought of reproach for that gentle girl. 
For if Annie’s wish would have made it so, she would then 
have been a happy, proud wife. 

John Warner was completely deceived, and well pleased 
to think Annie was mistaken — that Regina thought of him 
only with feelings of friendship. 

Annie’s guileless heart was puzzled ; and she long con- 
tinued to wonder was it so ? 

Oh, it was well for her tender nature that she knew not 
of how much bitter sorrow was hidden beneath those 
bright smiles. 

A few months later, and John Warner took to his heart 
and home the woman whose pride w’as founded on a rock 
of truth and justice ; who will teach her children to re- 
member an ancestry whose women were pure and men 
brave — whose nobility was of nature, not birth — whose 
greatness was won by their own ability and good deeds. 


CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

’A/T^NSTROUS depravity ! Shameful! Now is not 

-LVX that a sight to discourage any Christian, par- 
ticularly one that has labored so hard as I have in the 
temperance cause?” said the worthy Silas Flint; and 
pointing with his cane, he directed his friend’s attention to 
the opposite side of the street, there to see a boy of about 
fourteen years, miserably clad, proceeding with very irreg- 
ular steps, sometimes nearing the curbstone, and then 
again going quite up to the store windows, stopping quite 
still, and leaning against the buildings, as if for support. 

“ Is he intoxicated ? ” inquired Mr. Flint’s friend. 

“ Why, certainly ! Do you not see he has a bottle now, 
peeping from under his jacket ? The young vagabond ! 
The work-house is the place for him ! ” 

‘‘ He does not look as if he had been drinking rum. He 
is very pale, and indeed looks quite sick. Perhaps, now, 
he is, and we are judging him wrongly. Let us go speak 
to him, Flint. We can then find out. We may possibly 
be able to reform him. ” 

“ No, we are not judging him wrongly. That bottle is 
proof positive. It is no use to waste our time talking to 
him. Besides, it is near five o’clock, and I have to meet 
the Committee on Foreign Missions. If I had the time, 
I would find a policeman, and call his attention to that 
young rascal I ” (367) 


368 


CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 


The friends crossed the street just then, and came very 
close to the boy, who was gazing wistfully into a bakery 
window. He was very pale, with great mournful gray 
eyes, around which were dark circles. His thin lips were 
quite blue, and indeed his whole expression was of great 
suffering. Silas Flint looked at him with a prejudiced eye 
and mind. He could see nothing but the bottle. His 
friend, however, was very doubtful as to the intoxication 
of the boy ; and seeing how wistfully he was gazing in at 
the bread, cakes and so on, said : 

“ I do not believe it. He is sick, perhaps. I am going 
to take him in, and give him something, at any rate.” 

Just then the boy started off a few steps, reeled, and 
almost fell; but tightly he clutched his bottle. Several 
men came along just then, and one exclaimed ; 

“ A young hopeful I Ain’t he ? ” 

The charitable feeling in the breast of Mr. Flint’s friend 
received a check then. He could no longer doubt it was 
as Mr. Flint said. And that worthy gentleman went on 
his way, met the “ foreign mission workers,” subscribed 
one hundred dollars for that cause, and returned to his 
home feeling very comfortable, as he considered he had 
done his Christian duty. 

Mr. Flint was a good man in his way. If he saw any 
suffering he would relieve it, if he could ; but he had little 
faith in anybody, or anything. Well, perhaps we should 
be like him, if we had had his experience. Mr. Flint was 
a bachelor of forty-five. Twenty years before, he had loved 
and was engaged to a young girl who supported herself 
and aged mother by embroidering. The pay was not a 
living one. Late and early she toiled, until her young 
life was wearing fast away. Silas was poor then, working 
as a journeyman. His pay might have kept himself and 
wife, but the mother would be an encumbrance, an extra 


CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 369 

mouth to feed; so he dare not marry then. He could 
not trust to Providence for help. But he did trust in Mary. 
He had perfect faith in her love and constancy. 

In the mean time, while Silas was waiting for the old 
mother to die, or his better da3^s to come, somebody else 
came to see pretty Mary — one who had money enough to 
bring the invalid mother wines and delicacies — and so won 
her heart that she began with winnings and pleadings, and 
continued for many weeks wondering why Mary would 
not love and marry the kind young man. 

Mary felt her strength growing daily less ; and the 
dreadful thought came. What if she should grow sick? 
Who would care for her mother? And so the poor girl 
yielded. And one day when Silas called to tell her of 
some better luck he had at length, he found his Mary 
gone — “ married,” the neighbors told him. 

Since then Silas had believed in and trusted no one. In 
the years that had intervened he had grown in riches, and 
become quite a leading man in church and State affairs. 

A week after the scene we have just related, Silas Flint 
sat at his abundantly furnished table. A ring at the bell, 
and the remark from Mrs. Hart, the widowed sister who 
did the honors of her bachelor brother’s establishment: 

“ John, I think it is a beggar. I saw a boy pass the 
window. If so, tell the cook to give him his dinner.” 

Mr. Flint was just leaving the table, and said : 

“ Stay ! I’ll go myself” 

Opening the door, he found standing on the step the boy 
he had seen a few days before. 

“ Please, sir — ” 

The child’s petition was cut short by Silas exclaiming: 

“ Be off with you ! I know you, sir ! ” 

“ Oh, sir ! My mother—” 

“ Oh, yes, of course ! The same old song, your mother / 
23 


370 


CAUGHT LN THE ACT. 


Your rum ! Why, I vow you’ve got it now I Be off ! I’ll 
have you put where you can’t get at rum ! ” exclaimed 
Silas, his breast filled, as he thought, with righteous indig- 
nation. 

“ Oh, sir, indeed, indeed — ” 

Slam went the hall door, and the boy tottered off. A 
few moments after a bright, pretty girl came into the 
dining-room, and throwing down her music books, said : 

“ Was there a beggar-boy at the door, a moment or two 
ago ? ” 

“ Yes. Why, Katy ? ” answered her mother. 

Why, he was so miserable-looking, and the tears were 
trickling down his poor pale cheeks. I felt so sorry for 
him, and gave him all the money I had — only twenty-five 
cents.” 

“Yes, and he will go to the first drinking shop and fill 
his bottle. And your money will do more harm than 
good,” said Uncle Silas. 

“Well, perhaps so; but I don’t think it, uncle. And if 
he does, I cannot help it. Better so, than for him to be 
hungry for bread, and I to refuse him,’’ answered Katy. 

A few weeks after this, when Silas Flint was absent from 
the city, a lady in the neighborhood called on a charitable 
errand, soliciting Mrs. Hart’s and Katy’s help in the way 
of clothes and sewing for the Orphan Asylum. As she was 
leaving she remarked : 

“ By the way, Mrs. Right called on me this morning to 
obtain help for a case of great destitution in this neighbor- 
hood.” 

“Who? — where! Did you find them very miserable 
when you went? ” Katy asked, very much interested. 

“ 1 — did not go — ” 

“ Well, you sent. Tell me all about them. Mamma, we 
must go.” 


CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 


371 


“ No ; I did not send. I asked Mrs. Right if the person 
was a member of any church. If she had been of ours, of 
course I should have gone immediately. Mrs. Right did 
not know.” 

“ Nor care, if she is like me. Good Heavens! Do you 
suppose, when our blessed Saviour bade his disciples to 
‘ visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction,’ to havo 
‘ pity on the poor,’ he meant those of any 'particular de- 
nomination ? Save me from such Christians 1 Well, I sup- 
pose, as I am claimed as ‘ ours ’ by none, I can with safety 
assist any and all. I only wish I had the means.” 

The lady was going off feeling quite insulted by Katy’s 
fathfer brusque remark, but Katy called her back, making 
some little apology, and obtained the information she 
wanted relative to the suffering people. 

An hour after, Mrs. Hart and Katy found them. The 
mother sat by the bed and gently was rubbing the hands 
of her boy, “ the widow’s son.” Katy immediately recog- 
nized the poor boy that her uncle had driven from the 
door. Paler, thinner far than when she saw him last, he 
la5^ As she drew near, he opened his eyes. A smile of 
recognition, a sweet, grateful smile, greeted her, and he 
murmured : 

“ The kind lady, mother.” 

Katy’s eyes were dim with tears. Seeing by a quick 
glance the many things she could bring to make the sick 
boy more comfortable, she hastened home to get them. 
Everything was done then to help and comfort the mother 
and her boy. But it was too late. Poor Willie was dying. 
The physician whom Katy had summoned gave no liope ; 
only a few days at most would he linger. 

Silas Flint returned that night, and Katy told him of 
the dying boy, and the great destitution of the mother. 

Early the next morning Katy started, her uncle with 


372 


CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 


her. All was still, not even the painful breathing of poor 
Willie was heard, as they stood at the partly opened door. 

“ Hush ! ” whispered Katy. “ He is sleeping, I think.” 

Hushed poor Willie had been — yes, to sleep in the 
bosom of his Saviour. No more suffering then. All was 
rest and peace. 

Katy stepped into the room. With a quick, noiseless 
tread, she approached the bed. She knew then Willie was 
lovingly cared for. He needed no longer the tardy assist- 
ance which was offered then. 

Silas Flint drew near, awed! Oh, if that was all! 
Conscience-stricken, he gazed on the little emaciated form. 
Oh ! if he could only have recalled that harsh, hasty, aye, 
cruel treatment ! What if the boy was as he supposed? 
He might have saved him. 

The look of suffering had passed away. An expression 
of perfect peace rested on his face. About the lips a smile 
still lingered, and Silas Flint thought how like was that 
mouth to one he had loved so well, long years before. 

A sob in the distant part of the room caused both Katy 
and her uncle to turn, and see the poor mother, standing 
in an attitude of the deepest grief, gazing on a suit of well- 
worn and patched clothes, which hung over a chair. She 
turned, in answer to Katy’s kind, sympathizing words, and 
Silas Flint beheld the Mary he had loved so long ago ! 

He sprang forward, caught her hand, and said : 

“ Mary ! So near me, and suffering ! Oh ! why did I 
not find you before ? Why did you not send to me ? ” 

“ I could not ! How could I ? ” 

Then Silas thought of the child’s coming unbidden, and 
the result. A groan of anguish escaped his lips. 

Mary raised the jacket from the chair, and a bottle — 
the bottle^ the proof positive — fell out. She stooped and 
picked it up, crying anew then, and saying: 


CAUGHT IK THE ACT. 


373 


poor darling! He never thought of this when he 
came home that last day, he was suffering so much ; ” and 
drawing out the cork, she went to the fireplace and shook 
out into the ashes the contents, curds of sour milk and 
whey. 

Silas Flint stood aghast I — Proof positive to him then, 
that he had misjudged the poor boy, cruelly treated him, 
and was in truth instrumental to his death ! At that mo- 
ment he would have given all his possessions to have 
recalled his conduct. 

Gradually he drew from Mary the story of her suffer- 
ings. Her husband had always treated her kindly, giving 
her every comfort, but spending his money recklessly. How 
he made it, she knew not, for a long time. At length it came 
to her, the dreadful truth: she was living on the gold won 
at the gaming table! One after another of her children 
had died, until only Willie, the youngest, was left, the 
poor afflicted one. He was subject to convulsions, which 
had affected him so fearfully he could scarcely walk. “ He 
could only totter about ! ” Mary said, and Silas groaned 
again with bitter memories. 

Her husband had died five years before, leaving her, of 
course, destitute. F or some time, until the last few months, 
she had managed to keep from hunger, at least. But lately 
her health had failed. She could work no more. One 
kind friend she told of, who gave Willie a bottle of milk 
every day. 

“ The last time he was out, this lady, your niece, met 
him and gave him some money, which kept us from hun- 
ger that day and the next. But, Willie, poor darling ! did 
not care to eat much after that day. Fie fell and injured 
himself coming home. From that he died.” 

Dear Willie ! patient, suffering Willie ! so harshly judged 
and cruelly treated, sleep on your sleep of perfect peace I 


374 


CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 


Silas Flint’s heart will never cease its aching on your 
account. 

What was the great surprise of the neighborhood may 
be well imagined, when poor Willie’s little form was car- 
ried to the home of Silas Flint, to he borne from there to a 
beautiful cemetery, and placed in Mr. Flint’s own lot. 

When they returned from the funeral, Silas brought the 
clergyman with him, and seeking Mary, he said : 

“ It is a sad time, Mary, to ask you to come to me. But 
I cannot let you grieve alone. I must try to comfort you. 
Come, I have never offered to another woman your place. 
Will you take it now? ” 

He put out his hand, hers was clasped, and standing 
before the man of God, their lives w'ere united. 

Silas was a changed man after that. He hunted out the 
suffering ones near home. The most manifest depravity 
was dealt gently with. He was ever, from that awaking 
day, seeking to atone for his past terrible error by future 
acts of true charity. 


THE END. 



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Victor’s Triumph, I 75 

A Beautiful Fiend, 1 75 

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A Noble Lord, 1 75 

Lost Heir of Linlithgttw, 1 75 

Tried for her Life, 1 75 

Cruel as the Grave, 1 75 

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,S1 

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1 

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, 1 

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1 

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1 

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, 1 

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. 1 

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, 1 

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Vivia : or the Secret of Power 

. 1 

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. 1 

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. 1 

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, 1 

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, 1 

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, 1 

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, 1 

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India ; Pearl of Pearl River,., 

. 1 

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. 1 

75 

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, 1 

75 

The Mystery of Dark Hollow,.. 

, 1 

75 

Avenger, 1.75 | Retribution 

1 

75 


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5 

75 

75 

75 


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..SI 

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.. 1 

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After Dark 


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The Rich Husband. By author of George Geith,” 1 75 

H.ircm Life in Egypt and Constantinople. By Emmeline Lott, 1 75 

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AVoodhurn Grange. A Novel. By William Howitt, 1 75 

C'Ointry Quarters. By the Countess of Blessington, 1 75 

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The Coquette: or, the Life and Letters of Eliza AA’harton, 1 75 

The Pride of Life. A Story of the Heart. By Lady Jane Scott...... 1 75 

Tne Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court, 1 75 

My Hero. By .Airs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story, 1 75 

The Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Romance. By Judge Jones,.... 1 75 
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I-ove and Money. By J. B. .Jones, author of the “ Bival Belles,'’... 1 75 
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60 

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Louise La Valliere; or the Fifth Series and End of the Three 

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The Memoirs of a Physician. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated.... 1 75 
Queen’s Necklace; or Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
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The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas 1 75 

Edmond Dantes. A Sequel to the “ Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 75 

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Lord Snxondale ; or the Court of Queen Victoria. By Beynolds, 1 75 

Count Christoval. Sequel to “ Lord Saxondale.” By Reynolds, 1 75 

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Eustace Quentin, Sequel to “ Mary Price,” By G. W, M. Reynolds, 1 75 
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Banker's Daughter. Sequel to “Joseph Wilmot.” By Reynolds, 1 75 

Kenneth. A Romance of the Highlands. By G. W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 

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Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Within the Maze,” 1 75 
Bessy Rane. By Jlrs. Henry Wood, author of “ The Channings,”.... 1 75 
George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Osw.ald Cray,” 1 75 
The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Dene Hollow,”... 1 75 

Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “ The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood, 1 75 

Shadow of A.«hlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Bessy Rane,” 1 75 

Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Etirl’s Heirs. By Mrs. Wood,... 1 
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Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood 1 

The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Verner’s Pride,”... 1 
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St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,” 1 
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i D 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 
7 5 
75 
75 
75 


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1.50 

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1.50 

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..Cloth, 

1.50 

.Cloth, 

1.50 

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1.50 

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American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller, Cloth, 

Hunted Down; andother Reprinted Pieces, Cloth, 

The Holly-Tree Inn; and other Stories, Cloth, 

The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 

John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to Mystery of Edwin Drood,. ..Cloth, 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in twenty-two volumes, $.34.00 

“ “ Full sheep. Library style, 45.00 

** “ Half calf, sprinkled edges, 56.00 

Half calf, marbled edges, 61.50 

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1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

2.00 

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Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $.3.00 


Pickwick Paper.'^ Cloth, 

Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 

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3.00 

3.00 

3.00 

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Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 

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3.00 
3.00 
3.00 
,3.0 ft 
3.00 
3.00 


The follotoing are each complete in one volume. 

Great Expectations $1.50 [ Dickens’ New Stories,. ..Cloth, $1.50 

Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey’s Clock,. ...Cloth, 1.50 

American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller, Cloth, 

Hunted Down: and other Reprinted Pieces, Cloth, 

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The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 

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Price of a set, in thirty-six volumes, bound in cloth, $55.00 

“ Full sheep. Library style, 74.00 

^ Half calf, antique, or half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 108.00 


1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

2.00 

2.00 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

GREAT REDUCTION IN THEIR PRICES. “=©81 


ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION. 

Reduced in price from $2.50 to $1.75 a volume. 

This edition is printed from large ty^ye, double column, octavo page, each 
book being complete in one volume, the whole containing near Six Hundred 
Illustrations, by Cruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, and other artists. 


David Copperfield, Cloth, $1.75 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 1.75 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 1.75 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 1.75 

Christmas Stories Cloth, 1.75 

Dickens’ New Stories,. ..Cloth, 1.75 
A Tale of Two Citie.«, ...Cloth, 1.75 
Ainericiin Notes and 

Pic-Nic Papers, Cloth, 


1.75 


Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $1.75 

Pickwick Papers, Cloth, 1.75 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 1.75 

Great Expectations, Cloth, 1.75 

Lamplighter’s Story,.. ..Cloth, 1.75 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 1.75 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1.75 

Little Dorrit, Cloth, 1.75 

Dombey and Son, Cloth, 1.75 

Sketches by “ Boz,” Cloth, 1.75 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in eighteen volumes, $.31.50 

“ “ Full sheep. Library style, 40.00 

** “ Half calf, sprinkled edges, 48.00 

“ Half calf, marbled edges 54.00 

** “ Half calf, antique, or Half calf, full gilt backs,... 60.00 

“NEW NATIONAL EDITION” OF DICKENS’ WORKS. 

This is the cheapest bound edition of the works of Charles Dicken.®, pub- 
lished, all his writings being contained in seven large octavo volitmes, 
with a portrait of Charles Dickens, and other illustrations. 

Price of a set, in Bl.ack cloth, in seven volume.^, $20.00 

** “ Full sheep. Library style, 25.00 

** “ Half calf, antique, or .Half calf, full gilt backs,... 30. OG 

CHEAP PAPER COVER EDITION OF DICKENS’ WORKS. 


Each book being complete 

Pickwick Papers, 50 

Nicholas Nickleby, 50 

Dombey and Son, 50 

Our Mutual Friend, 50 

David Copperfield, 50 

Martin Chuzzlewit, 50 

Old Curiosity Shop, 50 

Oliver Twi.st, 50 

American Notes, 25 

Hard Times, 25 

A Tale of Two Cities, 25 

Somebody’s Luggage, 25 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings, 25 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy, 25 

Mugby Junction, 25 

Dr. Marigold’s Prescriptions,... 25 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, 25 

Message from the Sea, 25 

Hunted Down; and Other Reprinted 


in one large octavo volume. 

Bleak House, 50 

Little Dorrit, 50 

Christmas Stories, 50 

Barnaby Rudge, 50 

Sketches by “Boz,” 50 

Great Expectations, 50 

Joseph Grimaldi, 50 

The Pic-Nic Papers, 50 

The Haunted House, 25 

Uncommercial Traveller, 25 

A House to Let, 25 

Perils of Engli.sh Prisoners, 25 

Wreck of the Golden Mary, 25 

Tom Tiddler’s Ground, 25 

Dickens’ New Stories, 25 

Lazy Tour Idle Apprentices, 25 

The Holly-Tree Inn, 25 

No Thoroughfare, 25 

Pieces, 50 


THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS. By Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, 
containing a full history of his Life, his Uncollected Pieces, in Prose 
and Verse; Personal Recollections and Anecdotes; His Last Will in 
full ; and Letters from Mr. Dickens never before published. Witij 
ft Portrait aad Autograph of Charles Dickens. Price $2.00. fH) 


12 T. E. PETEESOIT & BUOTHEKS’ PUEIICATIONS. 


ALEXAIIDEE DUMAS’ WOEKS, 


Count of Montc-Cristo, $1 60 

EJinond Dantes, 75 

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Diana of Meridor, 1 00 

Adventures of a Marquis, 1 00 

Love and Liberty, (l7y2-’93).. 1 50 


Memoirs of a Physician, $1 

Queen’s Necklace, I 

Six Years Later, 1 

Countess of Charny, 1 

Andree de Taverney, 1 

The Chevalier, 1 

Forty-five Guardsmen, 1 

The Iron Hand, 1 OO 

The Conscript, 1 5 > 

Countess of Monte-Cristo, 1 


00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 


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The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


00 

50 


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The Horrors of Paris, 75 

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Twin Lieutenants, 75 

Man with Five Wives, 75 


Annette ; or. Lady of Pearls,... 75 

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Buried Alive, 25 


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 


Mysteries Court of London,. ...$1 00 

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The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 


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Child of Waterloo, 75 

Isabella Vincent...... 75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 


Vivian Bertram,. 
Countess of Lascelles, , 
Duke of Marchuioi t,.. 
Massacre of Glencoe,. 


Ellen Percy, 75 

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Pickwick Abroad, 75 

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Discarded Queen, 75 

Life in Paris, 50 

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Loves of the Harem, 

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The five above books are also bound in one volume, cloth, for $4.00. 

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T. B. PETESSON & ERCTHEES’ PUBLICATIOIS’S. 13 


CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS. 


Charles O’Malley, 


Arthur O’Leary,.... 

Harry Lorrequer, 


Con Cregan, 

Jack Hinton, 


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Tom Burke of Ours,,., 


Horace Templeton, 

Knight of Gwynne,..k 


Kate O’Donoghue,., 


Above are in paper cover, or a fine edition is in cloth at $2.00 each. 

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Squire Trevlyu's Heir, 1 50 

Oswald Cray, 1 50 

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Saint Martin’s Eve, 1 50 


Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “The Channings,” 1 50 

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The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

The Mystery, 751 A Life’s Secret, 50 

The Lost Bank Note, 50: The Haunted Tower, 50 

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The Lost Will, 50 

Orville College, 50 

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William Allair 2 } 

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Above are in cloth at $2.00 each. 


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Man-of-War’s-Man, 


50 

50 

50 

50 

25 


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CHARLES J. PETERSON’S WORKS. 

The Old Stone Mansion, $1 50 1 Kate Aylesford, $1 50 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

Cruising in the Last War, 75 I Grace Dudley; or, Arnold at 

Valley Farm, 25 1 Saratoga, 60 


WILLIAM H. MAXWELL’S WORKS. 

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MISS BRADDON’S WORKS. 

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14 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 


Beautifully Illustrated 


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Major Jones’ Chronicles of 

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Mysteries of the Backwoods,... 75 

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W estern Scenes ; or, Life on 

the Prairie, 75 

Streaks of Squatter Life, 75 

Pickings from the Picayune,... 75 

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Bound Over, 75 

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Yankee among the Merinaitls,.. 75 

New Orleans Sketch Book, 75 


hy Felix 0. 0. Barley. 

Drama in Pokerville, 

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My Shooting Box, 

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Peter Ploddj' 

AdventuresofCaptain Farrago, 
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ticeship, 

Sol. Smith’s Theatrical Jour- 
ney- W ork, 

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American Joe Miller, 

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75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

76 

75 

75 

75 

50 

50 


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Life of Dick Turpin, 50 

Life of Davy Crockett, 50 

Life of Grace O’Malley, 50 

Desperadoes of the NewWorld, 50 

Life of Henry Thomas, 25 

Life of Ninon De L’Enclos,..., 25 
Life of Arthur Spring 25 


The Tower of London, with 93 illustrations, paper cover, 1.50, cloth, 2 50 

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Lives of Jack Sheppard and Guy Fawkes, in one volume, cloth, 1 75 

MISS ELLEN PICKERING’S WORKS. 


The Grumbler, 75 

Marrying for Money, 75 

Poor Cousin, 50 


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Who Shall be Heir? .38 


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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 15 


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The Lost Bride, 50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 


The Two Brides, 

Ltve in a Cottage,.... 

Love in High Life,.. 

Year after Marriage, 

The Lady at Home,.. 

Cecelia Howard, 50 

Orphan Children, 50 

Debtor’s Daughter, 50 


The Divorced Wife, 50 

Pride and Prudence, 60 

Agnes ; or, the Possessed, 50 

Lucy Sandford, 50 

The Banker’s Wife, 60 

'The Two Merchants, 50 

Trial and Triumph, 50 

The Iron Rule, 50 

Insubordination; or, the Shoe- 
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M.iry Moreton, 50 

Six iN'ights with the Washingtonians ; and other Temperance Tales. 

By T. S. Arthur. AVith original Illustrations, George Cruik- 
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MES. GREY’S CELEBRATED NOVELS. 

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The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


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Sybil Lennard 50 

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The Baronet’s Daughters, 50 

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Alice Seymour, 25 

Mary Seah.am 75 

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Good Society, 75 

Lion-Hearted, 75 


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Lori Montague’s P.ige $1 60 I The Cnv.ilier ^0 

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Japhet in Search of a Father,.. 50 

Phantom Ship 50 

Midshipman Ea.sy 50 

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Frank Mildmay, Naval OlBcer, 50 
Suarleyow, 50 

REVOLUTIONARY TALES. 


The Brigand, 50 

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J. F. SMITH’S WORKS. 

The Usurer’s Victim; or, | Adelaide AValdegrave: or 

Thomas Balscombe, 75 


Old Put; or. Days of 1776, 60 

Legends of Mexico, 50 

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The Quaker Soldier, paper, 1 60 

do. do. cloth, 1 75 


^ the 

Trials of a Go'verness, 75 


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50 

The Empire City, 

. 75 

Paul Ardenheim, 

1 

50 

Memoirs of a Preacher, 

, 75 

Blanche of Brandywine, 

1 

50 

The Nazarene, 

. < 0 

Washington and his Generals; 



Washington and his Men, 

75 

or, Legends of the American 



Legends of Mexico, 

. 50 

Revolution, 

1 

50 

The Entranced, 

. 25 

Mysteries of Florence, 

1 

00 

The Robbers, 

25 

Above in cloth at $2.00 each. 



The Bank Director’s Son, 

. 25 


EXCITING SEA TALES. 


Adventures of Ben Brace, 75 

Jack Adams, the Mutineer,.... 75 

Jack Ariel’s Adventures, 75 

Petrel; or. Life on the Ocean.. 75 

Life of Paul Periwinkle, 75 

Life of Tom Bowling, 75 

Percy Effingham, 75 

Cruising in the Last War, 75 

Red King, 50 

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The Doomed Ship, 50 

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The Flying Yankee, 50 

The Yankee Middy, 50 

The Gold Seekers, 50 

The King’s Cruisers, 50 

Life of Alexander Tardy, 50 

Re i Wing, , 50 

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Jaflk Junk, 50 

Dains, the Pirate, 50 

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Man-of-Wur’s-Man, 

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Yaval Officer, 

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Newton Forster, 

King’s Own, 

Japhet, 

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Peter Simple, 

Percival Keene, 

Poor Jack, 

Sea King, 

BY BEST AUTHCPwS. 


50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

f;0 

50 

50 

50 


Charles O’Malley, 

Jack Hinton, the Guard'^man, 

The Knight of Gwynne, 

Harry Lorrequer, 

Tom Burke of Ours, 

Arthur O’Leary, 

Con Cregan, 

Kate O’Donoghue, 

Horace Templeton, 

Davenport Dunn, 

Jack Adams’ Adventures, 

Valentine Vox, 

Twin Lieutenants,... 

Stories of Waterloo, 

The Soldier’s Wife, 

Guerilla Chief, 75 


The Three Guardsmen, 

75 

Twenty Years After, 

75 

Rragelonne, Son of Athos, 

75 

Tom Bowling’s Adventures,... 

75 

Life of Robert Bruce, 

75 

The Gipsy Chief, 

7 3 

Massacre of Glencoe, ^ 

75 

Life of Guy Fawkes, 

75 

Child of Waterloo, 

75 

Adventures of Ben Brace, 

75 

Life of Jack Ariel, 

75 

Forty-five Guardsmen, 

1 00 

Wallace, the Hero of Scotland, 
Following the Drum, 

1 00 

50 

The Conscript, a Tale of War. 


By Alexander Dumas, 

1 5ft 


With Illuminated Military Covers, in five Colors. 
7 0 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 
75 


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The Steward, <5 

Percy Efunghaiu, ^5 

The Prince, 75 


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Trapper’s Daughter, 75 

The Tiger Slayer, 75 

The Gold Seekers, 7 5 


The Prairie Flower, 

75 

The Indian Scout, 


The Trail Hunter, 


The Indian Chief, 

75 

The Red Track, 


The White Scalper, 

50 

The Freebooters, 

50 


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Pirates of the Prairies, 76 


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Life of Col. Monroe Edwards, . 50 

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Mysteries of Now Orleans, 50 

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Galloping Gus, 5< 

Life <fe Trial of Antoine Probst, 50 

Ned Hastings, 50 

Eveleen Wilson, 50 

Diary of a Pawnbroker, 5'! 

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Sweeney Todd, 50 

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Lives of the Felons, 25 

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Life of Biddy Woodhuii, 25 

Life of Mother Brownrigg, 25 

Dick Parker, the Pirate, 25 

Life of Mary Bateman, 25 

Life of Captain Blood 25 

Capt. Blood and the Beagles,.. 
Sixteen-Stringed Jack’s Fight 

f)r Life, 2? 

Highwayman’s Avenger, 2J 

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Life of Rody the Rover 25 

Life of Galloping Dick, 25 

Life of Guy Fawkes, 75 

Life and Adventures ofVidocq, 1 50 


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WORKS AT 75 CENTS. BY BEST AUTHORS. 

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Cyrillaj or, The Mysterious Engagement. By the author of '' The 

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The Red Indians of Newfoundland. Illustrated, 75 

Webster and Hayne’s Speeches in Reply to Colonel Foote, 75 

Roanoke j or. Where is Utopia? By C. IL Wiley. Illustrated, 75 

75 


'The Banditti of the Prairie, 

Tom Racquet 75 

Salathiel, by Croly, 75 

Corinne; or, Italy, 75 

Ned Musgrave 75 

Aristocracy, 75 

Popping the Question, 75 

Paul Periwinkle, 75 

The Inquisition in Spain, 75 

Elsie’s Married Life, 75 

Leyton Hall. By Mark Lemon, 75 


Flirtationsin America 75 

The Coquette, 75 

Thackeray’s Irish Sketch Book, 7 5 

Whitehall, 75 

The Beautiful Nun, 75 

Mysteries of Three Cities, 75 

Genevra. By Miss Fairfield,.. 75 

Crock of Gold. By Tupper,... 75 

Twin.s and Heart. By Topper, 75 

New Hope; or, the Rescue, 75 

Nothing to Say, 75 

Hans Breitmann’s Party. With other Ballads. By Charles G. Leland, 75 
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Love at First Sight 50 

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The Greatest Plague of Life,.. 50 

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The Orphans and Caleb Field,. 50 

More ton Hall, 50 

Bell Brandon, 50 


Sybil Grey, 50 

Female Life in New York,. 

Agnes Grey 

Diary of a Physician,. 


50 
50 
50 

The Emigrant Squire, 50 

60 
50 
50 
75 


The Monk, by Lewis 
The Beautiful French Girl,... 

Father Clement, paper, 

do. do. cloth, 

Miser’s Heir, paper 50 

75 


Kate Kennedy, 

The Admiral’s Daughter, 

The American Joe Miller, 

Ella Siratford, 

Josephine, by Grace Aguilar,., 

The Fortune Hunter, 

The Orphan Sisters, 

Abednego, the Money Lender,. 
Miriam Abroy, by D’Israeli ... 

Jenny Ambrose 

Train’s Union Speeches, 

The Romish Confessional 

Victims of Amusements, 

Ladies’ Work Table Book, 

Life of Antoine Probst, 

Alieford, a Family History,.. . 
General Scott’s $5 Portrait,... 

Henry Clay’s $5 Portrait 

Portrait of Schuyler Colfax,.. 


do. do. cloth. 

The Woman in Red. A Comp.anion to the ‘‘Woman in Black,” 

Twelve Months of Matrimony. By Ernelie F. Carlen, 

Robert Oaklands ; or, the Outcast Orphan, 

Father Tom and the Pope, in cloth gilt, 75 cents, or paper,... 


50 

50 

50 

50 

60 

50 

50 

50 

60 

60 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

00 

00 

50 

60 

60 

50 

50 


REV. CHARLES WADSWORTH’S SERMONS. 


Atnerica’s Mission, 25 I A Thanksgiving Sermon, 15 

Thankfulness and Character,.. 25 I Politics in Religion, 12 

Henry Ward Beecher on War and Emancipation, 15 

Rev. William T. Brantley’s Union Sermon, 15 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. ...terson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Fa. 


T. B. PETERSOIT & BROTHERS’ PHEIICATIOITS. 19 


WORKS AT 25 CEHTS, 


Aunt Kargaret’s Trouble, 25 

The Grey Woman, 25 

The Deformed, 25 

Two Prima Donnas, 25 

The Mysterious Marriage, 25 

Jack Downing’s Letters, 25 

The Mysteries of a Convent,... 25 

Rose Warrington, 25 

The Iron Cross, 25 

Charles Ransford, 25 

The Mysteries of Bedlam 25 


Madison’s Exposition of Odd Fellov 
The Iniquities and Barbarities Practi 
Comic Life of Billy Vidkins, with 32 


BY BEST AUTHORS. 


The Nobleman’s Daughter,... 25 

Ghost Stories. Illustrated,.... 25 

Ladies’ Science of Etiquette,... 25 

The Abbey of innismoyle, 25 

Gliddon’s Ancient Egypt 25 

Philip in Search of a Wife, 25 

Rifle Shots, 25 

Rody the Rover, 25 

The Sower’s Reward, 25 

The Courtier, 25 

G. F. Train and the Fenians, .. 25 

’ship. Illustrated, 25 

ced at Rome, 25 

Illustrations, 25 


THE SHAKSPEARE NOVELS. 

Shakspeare and his Friends,. ..$1 00 I The Secret Passion, $1 00 

The Youth of Shakspeare, 1 00 1 

Above three Books are also. in one volume, cloth. Price Four Dollars. 


WAVERLEY NOVELS. 


Ivanhoe, 25 

Rob Roy, 25 

Guy Mannering, 25 

The Antiquary 25 

Old Mortality 25 

Heart of Mid Lothian, 25 

Bride of Lammermoor, 25 

Waverley, 25 

St. Ronan's Well, 25 

Kenilworth, 25 

The Pirate, 25 

The Monastery, 25 

The Abbot, 25 

The Fortunes of Nigel, 25 


Above edition is the cheapest in th 
volumes, price 25 cents each, or Five 
A finer edition is also published of 
ty-six volumes, price Fifty cents eacl 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


The Betrothed, 25 

Peveril of the Peak, 25 

Quentin Durward, 25 

Red Gauntlet, 25 

The Talisman, 25 

Woodstock, 25 

Highland Widow, etc., 25 

The Fair Maid of Perth, 25 

Anne of Geierstein, 25 

Count Robert of Paris, 25 

The Black Dwarf and Legend 

of Montrose, 25 

Castle Dangerous, and Sur- 
geon’s Daughter, 25 


I world, and is complete in twenty-six 
Dollars for the complete set. 
each of the above, complete in twen- 
I, or Ten Dollars for the complete set. 


Moredun. A Tale of 1210, 60 I Scott’s Poetical Works, 6 00 

Tales of a Grandfiither, 25 I Life of Scott, cloth, 2 50 


“NEW NATIONAL EDITION” OF WAVERLEY NOVELS 

This edition of the Waverley Novels is contained in Jive large octavo vol- 
umes, with a portrait of Sir Walter Scott, vnnking /our thoitsaud very large 
double columned pages, in good type, and handsomely ])rlntcd on the finest 
of white paper, and bound in the strongest and most substantial manner. 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in five volumes, $15 00 

“ Full sheep. Library style, 17 50 

“ Half calf, antique, or Half calf, gilt, 25 00 

The Complete Prose and Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, are aLo 
published in ten volumes, bound in half calf, for $60 00 

SIR E. L. BULWER’S NOVELS. 

The Roue, 50 I The Courtier, 25 

The Oxonians, 50 ! Falkland, 25 


Above Rooks will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Frie9t 
byT. B, Peterson & Brothers. Pbiladslpbia, Pa- 


20 T. B. PETEBSON & BROTHEBS’ PTJBLICATIOJJ’S. 


LANGUAGES WITHOUT A MASTER. 

German without a Master. In Six Easy Lessons, by A. IT. Monteitb, 4d 

French without a Master, 40 I Italian without a Master, 48 

Spanish without a Master, 40 1 Latin without a Master 40 

The above five works on the French, txerman, Spanish, Latin, and Ttali.'^m 
Languages, whereby any one or all of these Languages can be learned by 
any one without a Teacher, with the aid of this book, by A. JI. Monteiih, 
is also published in liner style, in one volume, bound, price $2.00. 

UR. HOLLICK’S WORKS. 

Dr. Hollick’s great work on the Anatomy and Physiology of tho 
Human Figure, with colored dissected plates of the lluinan Figure, $2 08 


Dr. ilollick’s Family Physician, a Pocket Guide for Everybody, 25 

USEFUL BOOKS FOR ALL. 

Lady’s and Gentleman’s Science of Etiquette. By Count D’Orsay 

and Countess de Calabrella, with their portraits 50 

L irdner’s One Thousand and Ten Things "Worth Knowing, 50 

Knowlson’s Complete Farrier and Horse Doctor, 25 

Knowlson’s Complete Cow and Cattle Doctor, 25 

The Complete Kitchen and Fruit Gardener 25 

T IS Complete Florist a.nd Flower Gardener, 25 

Arthur’s Receipts for Preserving Fruits, etc., 12 


LIVES OF GENERALS AND OTHER NOTED MEN. 


The Lives of U. S. Grant and Hon. Henry Wilson. This book is a 
com-ilete History of tho Lives of General Ulysses S. Grant, and of 
the Hon. Henry Wilson, from their Birth up to the present time. It 
contains life-like Portraits of General Ulysses S. Grant, and of the 
Hon. Henry Wilson, and other Illustrative Engravings. Price 

One Dollar In cloth, or in paper cover, 75 

Moore’s Life of Hon. Schuyler Colfax. By llev. A. Y. Moore, of 
South Bend. With a Fine Steel Portrait. One vul. cloth. Pri'*o 1 50 
The Lives of Grant and Colfax. With life-like portraits of each, and 

other engravings. Cloth, $1.00 ; or in paper cover, 75 

liludrated Life, Speeches, Martyrdom and Funeral of President 

Abraham Lincoln. Cloth, $1.75; or in paper cover, I 50 

The I npcachment and Tri il of Andrew Johnson, cheap paper cover 


edition, price 50 cents, or a finer edition, bound in cloth, price. ...1 50 
Trial of the Assassins and Conspirators for the inuvder of President 
Abraham Lincoln. Cloth, $1.50 ; or cheap edition in paper cover, 5^ 
Life, Battles, Reports, and Public Services of General George B. 

McClellan. Price in paper 50 cents, or in cloth 75 

Life and Services of General Sheridan. Cloth, $1 .CO ; or in paper,.. 75 
Life and Sirvices of General George G. M^ade, Hero of Gettysburg, 25 

Life and Services of General B. F. Butler, Hero of New Orleans, 25 

The Life and Speeches of Andrew Johnson. Cloth, $1.00; orin paper. .75 
Lives of S 0 ”mour and Blair. Price 60 cents in paper, or in cloth,... 75 


Life of Archbishop Hughes, first Archbishop of New York, 25 

GEOKGE EEAirCIS TRAIN’S SPEECHES. 

Train’s Speeches. 2 vols., each 25 I Downfall of England 10 

Train’s Speech to the Fenians, 25 I Slavery and Emancipation, 10 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


22 VOLUMES, AT Sl.tS EACH; OR $38.50 A SET. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, 
Philadelphia, Pa., have just published an entire new, complete, and 
uniform edition of all the works written by 3Irs. Ann S. Stephens, 
the popxdar American AxUhoress. This edition is in duodecimo form, 
and is printed on the finest of white paper, and is complete in twenty- 
two volumes, and each volume is bound in the very best manner, in 
morocco cloth, with a full gilt back, and is sold at the low price of $1.75 
a volume, or $38.50 for a full and complete set. Every Family and 
every Library in th is country, should have in it a complete set of this 
new and beautif ul edition of the works of 3Irs. Ann S. Stephens, The 
following are the names of the volumes : 

BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT. 

BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought with a Price. 
WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life. 

LORD HOPES CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One. 
THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to “Lord Hope’s Choice.” 
THE REIGNING BELLE. 

PALACES AND PRISONS; or. The Prisoner of the Bastile. 
A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them. 

THE CURSE OF GOLD; or. The Bound Girl and Wife’s Trials. 
MABEL’S MISTAKE; or. The Lost Jewels. 

THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or. Pet From the Poor House. 
MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE REJECTED WIFE; or. The Ruling Passion. 

THE WIFE’S SECRET; or, Gillian. 

THE HEIRESS; or. The Gipsy's Legacy. 

THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS. 

SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford. 

RUSY GRAY’S STRATEGY; or. Married by Mistake. 
FASHION AND FAMINE. 

DOUBLY FALSE; or. Alike and Not Alike. 

THE GOLD BRICK. 

MARY DERWENT. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or 
$38.50 /or a complete set of the twenty-two x'olumes. Copies of either one 
or more of the above books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at 
once to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on 
remitting their price in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa, 


“Tho Tery best ladies’ magazine published .” — Scruca Falls (N. F.) Courier, 


t^THE CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD.-^ 


PETERSON’S iAGAZIN 


S@“CREAT REDUCTIONS TO CLUBS. 


POSTAGE PRE-PAID ON ALL SUBSCRIPTIONS. 


” Peterson’s Magazine” contains, every year, 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12 
colored Berlin patterns, 12 mammoth colored fashion plates, 24 pages of music, and 
930 wood cuts. The immense circulation of “Poterson” enables its proprietor to 
spend more money on embellishments, stories, &.C., &c., than any other. It gives 
more for the money than any in the world. Very great improvements will be made 
In 1877. Its ■' 

THRILLING TALES AND NOVELETTES 

Are the best published anywhere. All the most popular writers are employed to write 
originally for ‘^Peterson." In 1877, in addition to the usual number of short stories, 
FIVE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT NOVELETTES will bo given, by Mrs. Ann S. 
Stephens, Frank Lee Benedict, Mrs. F. II. Burnett, and others. 

Mammoth Colored Fashion Plates 

Ahead of all others. These plates are engraved on steel, twice the usual size, and 
are unequaled for beauty. They will bo superbly colored. Also, Household and 
other receipts; in short, everj’thiiig interesting to ladies. 

V.B . — As the publisher now pre-pays the postage to all mail subscribers, Peterson" 
is CHEAPER TUAN EVER ; in fact is THE CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD. 


TERMS (Always ia Advance) $2.00 A YEAR. 


2 Copies for $3.60 

3 “ “ 4.80 

4 Copies for $6.80 
6 “ “ 8.00 

6 Copies for $9.60 

7 « 11.00 

O “ « 13.50 


{ 

I 

{ 


With a copy of the premium picture (27 x 20) 
“Cornwallis’s Surrendl:r,” a five dollar engraving, 
to the person getting up the Club. 

With an e.vtra copy of the Magazine for 1S77, as 
a premium, to the person getting up the Club. 

With both an extra copy of the Magazine for 1877, 
and the premium picture, a five dollar engraving, 
to the person getting up the Club. 


Address, post-paid, 

V CHARLES J. PETERSON, 

806 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa. 


HCF" Specimens sent gratis, if written for. 



Is at tile Publishing and Bookselling Estabiisl.ment cf 

T. B. PETERSON BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

EKun 

T. B. PETICRSON & BROTHERS, Philadelpliia, are the American puhlislicrs of 
the popular and fast-selling books written by ]\iHs. Emma D. E. N. t^ovTiiwoKiir, 
Mrs. Ann S Stephens, Mrs. Oakoline Lee Hi ntz, Miss Eliza A. Dliuv, Mks C. 
A. W .UFiELi), Mas. Hknry 'Wood, Q. K. P. Dofsticks, 1 kerfon Bennett, T. S. 
Arthur, Oeorge Lippard, Hans Breitmann (Charles G. Leeand;, Jami:s A. Jl ait- 
land, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Charles Lever, Wiekie Collins, 
]Mks. C. J. Newby, Justus Liebig, M'. 11. I^Iaxwell, Alexander Lumas, uEui.le 
W. M. Reynold^, Samuel Wauuen, ]Iknky Cockton, Eredrika Bremer, T. 
Adolphus Trollope, Madame Oeor^ie Sand, I ugene Sie, 3jiss Pardoe, Iramc 
Fairlegh, W. II. Ainsworth, FitAXK Lorkfstek (Henry W. IIerrftt), Miss 
Ellen Pickering, Captain JIauryatt, Mrs. (iRay', G. P. 11. James, Henry ^l• r- 
ford, Gustave Aimvrd, and hundreds of other authors ; as v eil a- of I ow’s Pati nt 
Sermons, Humorous American Books, and Miss Leslie's, Miss WnuHFirLu’s, 'J : k 
Young Wife’s, Mrs. Goodfellow’s, Mrs. Hale’s. Petersons’, The National, 
FrancatellTs, The Family Save-All, Queen of the Kitchen, ai.d aiJ the Lc&t 
and popular Cook Books publislied. 

T. B. PErEi?S >N & RROrilEUS take pleasure in calling the attention of Iho 
entire Reading Community, as wed as of all their ^ustomer^, and every L . kse ur, 
News Agent, and Hook Boyer, as well as of the entire Book Trade everyv. ben*. lo 
the fact that they are now publishing a large number of cloth and pat er-n*veu*d 
Books, in very attractive style, including a series id cent, 50 cent. 75 cent, $1 0, 
$1.50, $1.75, and $2.00 Book-^, in new (-tyle covers and bindings, making them ieipe 
books for the money, and blunging thnni before the Reading Public by libera! ad- 
vertising They are new books, and are cheap editions of the most popular and most 
saleable l>ooks published, are written by the I est American and English authors piid 
are presented in a very attractive style, pnnted from legible type, on good paper, 
and are es])ecially adapted to suit, all wlio love to read good books, as well for aU 
General Reading, and they will be found for sale by all Booksellers, and at liulel 
Stands, Bailroad Stations and in tlie Cars. They are in fact the most popuhir scries 
of works of fiction ever published, retailing at 25 cents, 50 cents, 75 cents, $1.00, $i .50, 
$1.75, and $2.00 each, as they comprise the writings of tlie best and most popular 
authors in the world, all of which will be sold by us to the trade at very low piiccs, 
and also at retail to eveiwbody. Send for a Catalogue of those Looks at once. 

mr N ew books are issued by us every week, comprising the best and most enter- 
taining works published, suitable for the Parlor, Library, ^iltiug-Koom, Railroad or 
Sreumboat reading, and are written by the most popular and best writers in the world. 

Enclose a draft for five, ten, twenty, fifty, or one hundred dollars, or more, to 
us in a letter, and write fur what books you wish, and on receipt of the inoney, or a 
satisfactory reference, the books will be ijacked and sent to you at once, in any way 
you ma 3 " direct, with circulars and show-bills of tlie books to post up. 

We want every Bookseller, and every News Agent, everywhere, to sell our 
books, and to keep an assortment c*f them on liami, and lo S(*nd to us at once f.r a 
co])y of onr New Illustrated Descriptive Catalogne, winch look over randully, nunk- 
ing what books you may want, as it contain.s a list of all l)Coks pub;ish(ai bv »»» 
or any of which will be sold by us to everybody in the Book Tntde, to Lc^i*se*ierH, 
or to News Agents, at very low rates. There are no books published j'ou can sell as 
many of, or make as much money on, as Petersons’, ^eml us on a trial onler. 
All orders, large or small, will be sent the day the order is received, uuJ snudl 
orders will receive the same jiromptnes-s and care as large orders. 

JSf^ All Books named in Petersons’ Catalogue will be found for sale bj’ all Book^ 
sellers, or copies of any one ]>ook, or morg^or all of them, will be sent to any one at 
once, to any place, per mail, post-paid, orYree of freight, on remitting the reiail price 
of the books wanted to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia. 

WANTED.— A Bookseller, News Agent, or (’anvasscr, in every city, town or 
village* on this Continent, to engage in the sale of Petersons’ New and Popuiar 
Fast Selling Books, on which large sales, and large profits can be made. 

JS^ Booksellers, Librarians, News Agents, Canvassers, Pedlers, and all other per^ 
eons, who may want any of Petersons’ Popular and Fast Selling Books, will please 
address their orders and letters, at once, to meet with iinmeiliate attention, to 

T. B. FETEESOX & BKOTHERS, Fublishers, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


m EMMA a K a soinwoffl's worn 


41 VOLUMES, AT $1.75 EACH; OR $71.75 A SET. 


ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made.”) 
SELF-RAISED; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.** 
THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 
VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.” 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 
FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN HATER. 

HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “ Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES; or. Winning Her Way. 

THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.” 
THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or. The Crime and the Curse. 
THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or. The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “ Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 
THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “ Family Doom.” 
THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening. 
THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, SHANNONDALE. 
ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE, 

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. 

VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 


THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER ; or. The Children of the Isle. 
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 

THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 

THE WIDOW’S SON; or, LEFT ALONE. 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 


THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

THE DESERTED WIFE. THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 

THE LOST HEIRESS.'^ THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 

THE HAUNTED HOMEST£AD. LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
THE SPECTRE LOVERjib^ 0 ^"^IBUTieN. 

Above boohs are each in duodecimo form, printed on the finest 
white paper, and bound in morocco cloth, gilt bach, price $1.75 each, 
or $71 ./ 5 for a full set. They will be found for sale by all Toohscllers ; 
or copies of any one or all of them, will be sent to any one, to any place. 


v,t once, postage prc~paid, or free of freight, on remitting price to 


T, B, PETEUSOIT ^ BROTHERS, Publishers, 

308 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 












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